STINGAREE 


"My  name's  Slingaree! 


STINGAREE 


BY 

E.    V/,    HORNUNG 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

GEORGE   W.    LAMBERT 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW    YORK::::::::::::::i9o7 


I  •,»'      Copvbigmt)^j9o$,  BV 
;     .  .qH^!VJRLES.gf:jlIBNER'S.  SONS 


CONTENTS 


I.  A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness     » 

II.  The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

III.  "To  the  Vile  Dust" 

IV.  A  Bushranger  at  Bay    . 
V.  The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

VI.  The  Honor  of  the  Road 

VII.  The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

VIII.  A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

IX.  The  Villam-Worshipper 

X.  The  Moth  and  the  Star 


Page 
I 

•  32 
.  70 
.  98 
,     121 

.  168 
.190 
.  215 
.  252 


mf<^*-5iS'Virf(W 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"My  name's  Stingaree!"  .  .         .  Frontispiece 

Facing 
page 

"Any  message,  young  fellow?"  .  .  .  .66 

Mr.   Kentish  watched  the  little  operation  of  "sticking 

up"   without  a  word  .  .  .  .  ,98 

The  gray  sergeant  flung  his  arms  round  their  prisoner  .    166 

Stingaree  toppled  out  of  the  saddle     .  .  .  .198 

The  mare  spun  round,  bucking  as  she  spun  .  .238 

Stingaree  knocked  in  vain  .  .  ,  ,  .246 


Stingaree 

A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 


"La  parlate  d'amor,    . 
O  cari  fior, 
Recate  i  miei  sospiri, 
Narrate  i  miei  matiri, 
Ditele  o   cari   fior 


MISS  BOUVERIE  ceased  on  the  high  note, 
as  abruptly  as  string  that  snaps  beneath 
the  bow,  and  revolved  with  the  music-stool,  to 
catch  but  her  echoes  in  the  empty  room.  None 
had  entered  behind  her  back;  there  was  neither 
sound  nor  shadow  in  the  deep  veranda  through 
the  open  door.  But  for  the  startled  girl  at  the 
open  piano,  Mrs.  Clarkson's  sanctum  was  pre- 
cisely as  Mrs.  Clarkson  had  left  it  an  hour  before; 
her  own  photograph,  in  as  many  modes,  beamed 
from  the  usual  number  of  ornamental  frames; 
there  was  nothing  whatever  to  confirm  a  wild  sus- 
picion of  the  living  lady's  untimely  return.     And 

I 


Stingaree 

yet  either  guilty  conscience,  or  an  ear  as  sensitive 
as  it  was  true,  had  heard  an  unmistakable  step 
outside. 

Hilda  Bouverie  lived  to  look  magnificent  when 
she  sang,  her  fine  frame  drawn  up  to  Its  last  inch, 
her  throat  a  pillar  of  pale  coral,  her  mouth  the 
perfect  round,  her  teeth  a  noble  relic  of  barbar- 
■;  ;,jsm;  biit  s>t;eeter  she  never  was  than  in  these  days, 
.'.  ::  .-.OF  .at -this  ,mpra-£nt  of  them,  as  she  sat  with  lips 
'"*' 'fust* 'parted ''and -teeth  just  showing,  in  a  simple 
summer  frock  of  her  own  unaided  making.  Her 
eyes,  of  the  one  deep  Tasmanlan  blue,  were  still 
open  very  wide,  but  no  longer  with  the  same  ap- 
prehension ;  for  a  step  there  was,  but  a  step  that 
jingled;  nor  did  they  recognize  the  silhouette  in 
top-boots  which  at  length  stood  bowing  on  the 
threshold. 

"Please  finish  it!"  prayed  a  voice  that  Miss 
Bouverie  liked  in  her  turn;  but  It  was  too  much 
at  ease  for  one  entirely  strange  to  her,  and  she 
rose  with  little  embarrassment  and  no  hesitation 
at  all. 

"Indeed,  no!  I  thought  I  had  the  station  to 
myself." 

"So  you  had — I  have  not  seen  a  soul." 

Miss  Bouverie  Instantly  perceived  that  honors 
were  due  from  her. 

2 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

"I  am  so  sorry!  You've  come  to  see  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Clarkson?"  she  cried.  "Mrs.  Clarkson  has 
just  left  for  Melbourne  with  her  maid,  and  Mr. 
Clarkson  has  gone  mustering  with  all  his  men. 
But  the  Indian  cook  is  about  somewhere.  I'll 
find  him,  and  he  shall  make  some  tea." 

The  visitor  planted  himself  with  much  gal- 
lantry in  the  doorway;  he  was  a  man  still  young, 
with  a  single  eye-glass  and  a  martial  mustache, 
which  combined  to  give  distinction  to  a  somewhat 
swarthy  countenance.  At  the  moment  he  had  also 
an  engaging  smile. 

"I  didn't  come  to  see  either  Mr.  or  Mrs. 
Clarkson,"  said  he;  "in  fact,  I  never  heard  their 
name  before.  I  was  passing  the  station,  and  I 
simply  came  to  see  who  it  was  who  could  sing  like 
that — to  believe  my  own  ears!" 

Miss  Bouverie  was  thrilled.  The  stranger 
spoke  with  an  authority  that  she  divined,  a  sin- 
cerity which  she  Instinctively  took  on  trust.  Her 
breath  came  quickly;  she  was  a  little  nervous  now. 

"If  you  won't  sing  to  my  face,"  he  went  on, 
"I  must  go  back  to  where  I  hung  up  my  horse, 
and  pray  that  you  will  at  least  send  me  on  my 
way  rejoicing.  You  will  do  that  in  any  case.  I 
didn't  know  there  was  such  a  voice  in  these  parts. 
You  sing  a  good  deal,  of  course?" 

3 


Stingaree 

"I  haven't  sung  for  months." 

He  was  now  in  the  room;  there  was  no  longer 
any  necessity  to  bar  the  doorway,  and  the  hght 
coming  through  fell  full  on  his  amazement.  The 
girl  stood  before  him  with  a  calm  face,  more 
wistful  than  ironic,  yet  with  hints  of  humor  in 
the  dark  blue  eyes.  Her  companion  put  up  the 
eye-glass  which  he  had  dropped  at  her  reply. 

"May  I  ask  what  you  are  doing  in  these 
wilds?" 

"Certainly.  I  am  Mrs.  Clarkson's  compan- 
ion." 

"And  you  sing,  for  the  first  time  in  months, 
the  minute  her  back  is  turned:  has  the  lady  no 
soul  for  music?" 

"You  had  better  ask  the  lady." 

And  her  visible  humor  reached  the  corners  of 
Miss  Bouverie's  mouth. 

"She  sings  herself,  perhaps?" 

"And  I  am  here  to  play  her  accompaniments!" 

The  eye-glass  focussed  the  great,  smiling  girl. 

"Cflw  she  sing?" 

"She  has  a  voice." 

"But  have  you  never  let  her  hear  yours?" 

"Once.  I  had  not  been  here  long  enough  to 
know  better.     And  I  made  my  usual  mistake." 

"What  Is  that?" 

4 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

"I  thought  I  had  the  station  to  myself." 

The  questioner  bowed  to  his  rebuke.  "Well?" 
he  persisted  none  the  less. 

"I  was  told  exactly  what  my  voice  was  like, 
and  fit  for." 

The  gentleman  turned  on  his  heel,  as  though 
her  appreciation  of  the  humor  of  her  position  were 
an  annoyance  to  him.  His  movement  brought 
him  face  to  face  with  a  photographic  galaxy  of 
ladies  in  varying  styles  of  evening  dress,  with  an 
equal  variety  in  coiffures,  but  a  certain  family 
likeness  running  through  the  series. 

"Are  any  of  these  Mrs.  Clarkson?" 

"All  of  them." 

He  muttered  something  in  his  mustache.  "And 
what's  this?"  he  asked  of  a  sudden. 

The  young  man  (for  as  such  Miss  Bouverie 
was  beginning  to  regard  him)  was  standing  under 
the  flaming  bill  of  a  grand  concert  to  be  given  in 
the  township  of  Yallarook  for  the  benefit  of  local 
charities. 

"Oh,  that's  Mrs.  Clarkson's  concert,"  he  was 
informed.  "She  has  been  getting  it  up,  and  that's 
why  she's  had  to  go  to  Melbourne — about  her 
dress,  you  know." 

He  smiled  sardonically  through  mustache  and 
monocle. 

5 


Stingaree 

"Her  charity  begins  near  home !" 

"It  need  not  necessarily  end  there." 

"Yet  she  sings  five  times  herself." 

"True — without  the  encores." 

"And  you  don't  sing  at  all." 

"But  I  accompany." 

"A  bitter  Irony!  But,  I  say,  what's  this? 
'Under  the  distinguished  patronage  of  Sir  Julian 
Crum,  Mus.  Doc,  D.C.L.'     Who  may  he  be?" 

"Director  of  the  Royal  College  of  Music,  In 
the  old  country,"  the  girl  answered  with  a 
sigh. 

"Royal  College  of  Music?  That's  something 
new,  since  my  time,"  said  the  visitor,  sighing 
also,  "But  what's  a  man  like  that  doing  out 
here?" 

"He  has  a  brother  a  squatter,  the  next  station 
but  one.  Sir  Julian's  spending  the  English  win- 
ter with  him  on  account  of  his  health." 

"So  you've  seen  something  of  him?" 

"I  wish  we  had." 

"But  Mrs.  Clarksonhas?" 

"No — not  yet." 

"I  see !"  and  an  enlightened  gleam  shot 
through  the  eye-glass.  "So  this  is  her  way  of  get- 
ting to  know  a  poor  overworked  wreck  who  came 
out  to  patch  his  lungs  in  peace  and  quiet !     And 

6 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

she's  going  to  sing  him  one  of  his  own  songs; 
she's  gone  to  Melbourne  to  dress  the  part;  and 
you're  not  going  to  sing  anything  at  all!" 

Miss  Bouverie  refrained  alike  from  comment 
and  confirmation;  but  her  silence  was  the  less 
creditable  in  that  her  companion  was  now  com- 
muning chiefly  with  himself.  She  felt,  indeed, 
that  she  had  already  been  guilty  of  a  certain  dis- 
loyalty to  one  to  whom  she  owed  some  manner  of 
allegiance;  but  that  was  the  extent  of  Miss  Bou- 
verie's  indiscretion  in  her  own  eyes.  It  caused  her 
no  qualms  to  entertain  an  anonymous  gentleman 
whom  she  had  never  seen  before.  A  colder  course 
had  comm.ended  itself  to  the  young  lady  fresh 
from  London;  but  to  a  Colonial  girl,  on  a  station 
where  special  provision  was  made  for  the  enter- 
taining of  strange  travellers,  the  situation  was 
simply  conventional.  It  might  have  been  less 
onerous  with  host  or  hostess  on  the  spot;  but 
then  the  visitor  would  not  have  heard  her  sing, 
and  he  seemed  to  know  what  singing  was. 

Miss  Bouverie  watched  him  as  he  leant  over 
the  piano,  looking  through  the  songs  which  she 
had  dared  once  more  to  bring  forth  from  her 
room.  She  might  well  have  taken  a  romantic  in- 
terest in  the  dark  and  dapper  man,  with  the  mili- 
tary   eye-glass    and    mustache,    the    spruce    duck 

7 


Stingaree 

jacket  and  the  spurred  top-boots.  It  was  her 
first  meeting  with  such  a  type  in  the  back-blocks 
of  New  South  Wales.  The  gallant  ease,  the 
natural  gayety,  the  charming  manners  that 
charmed  no  less  for  a  clear  trace  of  mannerism, 
were  a  peculiar  refreshment  after  society  racier 
of  Riverina  soil.  Yet  it  was  none  of  these  things 
which  attracted  this  woman  to  this  man;  for  the 
susceptible  girl  was  dead  in  her  for  the  time  being; 
but  the  desperate  artist  was  alive  again  after  many 
weeks,  was  panting  for  fresh  life,  was  catching  at  a 
straw.  He  had  heard  her  sing.  It  had  brought 
him  galloping  off  the  track.  He  praised  her  voice; 
and  he  knew — he  knew  what  singing  was. 

Who  could  he  be?  Not  .  .  .  could  that 
be  possible?" 

"Sing  me  this,"  he  said,  suddenly,  and,  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  piano,  played  the  opening  bars 
of  a  vocal  adaptation  of  Handel's  Largo  with  a 
just,  though  unpractised,  touch. 

Nothing  could  have  afforded  a  finer  hearing 
of  the  quality  and  the  compass  of  her  voice,  and 
she  knew  of  old  how  well  it  suited  her;  yet  at  the 
outset,  from  the  sheer  excitement  of  her  suspicion, 
Hilda  Bouverie  was  shaky  to  the  point  of  a  pro- 
nounced tremolo.  It  wore  off  with  the  lengthen- 
ing cadences,  and  in  a  minute  the  little  building 

8 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

was  bursting  with  her  voice,  while  the  pianist 
swayed  and  bent  upon  his  stool  with  the  exuberant 
sympathy  of  a  brother  in  art.  And  when  the  last 
rich  note  had  died  away  he  wheeled  about,  and  so 
sat  silent  for  many  moments,  looking  curiously 
on  her  flushed  face  and  panting  bosom. 

"I  can't  place  your  voice,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"It's  both  voices — the  most  wonderful  compass 
in  the  world — and  the  world  will  tell  you  so,  when 
you  go  back  to  it,  as  go  back  you  must  and  shall. 
May  I  ask  the  name  of  your  master?" 

"My  own  name — Bouverie.  It  was  my  father. 
He  is  dead." 

Her  eyes  glistened. 

"You  did  not  go  to  another?" 

"I  had  no  money.  Besides,  he  had  lived  for  what 
you  say;  when  he  died  with  his  dream  still  a  dream, 
I  said  I  would  do  the  same,  and  I  came  up  here." 

She  had  turned  away.  A  less  tactful  interlocu- 
tor had  sought  plainer  repudiation  of  the  rash 
resolve;  this  one  rose  and  buried  himself  in  more 
songs. 

"I  have  heard  you  in  Grand  Opera,  and  in 
something  really  grand,"  he  said.  "Now  I  want 
a  song,  the  simpler  the  better." 

Behind  his  back  a  daring  light  came  into  the 
moist  eyes. 

9 


Stingaree 

"There  is  one  of  Mrs.  Clarkson's,"  she  said. 
"She  would  never  forgive  me  for  singing  it,  but 
I  have  heard  it  from  her  so  often,  I  know  so  well 
how  it  ought  to  go." 

And,  fetching  the  song  from  a  cabinet,  she 
thrust  it  boldly  under  his  nose.  It  was  called 
"The  Unrealized  Ideal,"  and  was  a  setting  of 
some  words  by  a  real  poet  then  living,  whose 
name  caused  this  reader  to  murmur,  "London 
Lyrics!"  The  composer  was  Sir  Julian  Crum. 
But  his  name  was  read  without  a  word,  or  a  move- 
m^ent  of  the  strong  shoulders  and  the  tanned  neck 
on  which  Miss  Bouverie's  eyes  were  fixed. 

"You  had  beter  play  this  yourself,"  said  he, 
after  peering  at  the  music  through  his  glass.  "It 
is  rather  too  many  for  me." 

And,  strangely  crestfallen,  Miss  Bouverie  took 
his  place. 

"My  only  love  is  always  near, — 
In  country  or  in  town 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 
The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

"She  foots  it,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste, 
And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung 
And  hangs  below  her  waist. 
10 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

For  that  was  the  immortal  trifle.  How  much 
of  its  immortality  it  will  owe  to  the  setting  of  Sir 
Julian  Crum  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  but  here  is  an 
anonymous  view. 

"I  like  the  words,  Miss  Bouverie,  but  the  set- 
ting doesn't  take  me.  It  might  with  repetition. 
It  seems  lacking  in  go  and  simplicity;  technically, 
I  should  say,  a  gem.  But  there  can  be  no  two 
opinions  of  your  singing  of  such  a  song;  that's 
the  sort  of  arrow  to  go  straight  to  the  heart  of 
the  public — a  world-wide  public — and  if  I  am  the 
first  to  say  it  to  you,  I  hope  you  will  one  day  re- 
member it  in  my  favor.  Meanwhile  it  is  for  me 
to  thank  you — from  my  heart —  and  to  say 
good-by !" 

He  was  holding  out  a  sunburnt  hand. 

"Must  you  go?"  she  asked,  withholding  her 
own  in  frank  disappointment. 

"Unfortunately,  yes;  my  man  is  waiting  for 
me  with  both  horses  in  the  scrub.  But  before  I  go 
I  want  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you.  It  is — not  to 
tell  a  soul  I  have  been  here." 

For  a  singer  and  a  woman  of  temperament, 
Hilda  Bouverie  had  a  wonderfully  level  head. 
She  inquired  his  reason  in  no  promising  tone. 

"You  will  see  at  Mrs.  Clarkson's  concert." 

Hilda  started. 

II 


Stingaree 

"You  are  coming  to  that?" 

"Without  fail — to  hear  Mrs.  Clarkson  sing 
five  songs — your  song  among  them !" 

"But  it's  hers;  it  has  been  the  other  way 
about." 

The  gay  smile  broadened  on  the  swarthy  face; 
a  very  bright  eye  twinkled  through  the  monocle 
into  those  of  Miss  Bouverie. 

"Well,  will  you  promise  to  say  nothing  about 
me?  I  have  a  reason  which  you  will  be  the  first 
to  appreciate  in  due  season." 

Hilda  hesitated,  reasoned  with  herself,  and 
finally  gave  her  word.  Their  hands  were  joined 
an  instant,  as  he  thanked  her  with  gallant  smile 
and  bow.  Then  he  was  gone.  And  as  his  spurs 
ceased  jingling  on  the  veranda  outside,  Hilda  Bou- 
verie glanced  again  at  the  song  on  the  piano  and 
clapped  her  hands  with  unreasonable  pride. 

"I  do  beheve  that  I  was  right  after  all!" 
said  she. 

II 

Mr.  Clarkson  and  his  young  men  sat  at  meat 
that  evening  with  a  Miss  Bouverie  hard  to 
recognize  as  the  apparently  austere  spinster  who 
had   hitherto   been    something   of   a    skeleton    at 


12 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

their  board.  Coldly  handsome  at  her  worst, 
a  single  day  had  brought  her  forth  a  radiant 
beauty  wreathed  in  human  smiles.  Her  clear  skin 
had  a  tinge  which  at  once  suggested  and  dismissed 
the  thought  of  rouge;  but  beyond  all  doubt  she 
had  done  her  hair  with  less  reserve;  and  it  was 
coppery  hair  of  a  volatile  sort,  that  sprang  into 
natural  curls  at  the  first  relaxation  of  an  undue 
discipline.  Mr.  Clarkson  wondered  whether  his 
wife's  departure  had  aught  to  do  with  the  strik- 
ing change  in  her  companion ;  the  two  young  men 
rested  mutually  assured  that  it  had. 

"The  old  girl  keeps  too  close  an  eye  on  her," 
said  little  Mr.  Hack,  who  kept  the  books  and 
hailed  from  Middlesex.  "Get  her  to  yourself, 
Ted,  and  she's  as  larky  as  they're  made." 

Ted  Radford,  the  station  overseer,  was  a  per- 
sonage not  to  be  dismissed  in  a  relative  clause. 
He  was  a  t)'pical  back-blocker,  dry  and  wiry, 
nasally  cocksure,  insolently  cool,  a  fearless  hand 
with  horse,  man,  or  woman.  He  was  a  good 
friend  to  Hack  when  there  was  no  third  person 
of  his  own  kidney  to  appreciate  the  overseer's 
conception  of  friendly  chaff.  They  were  by  them- 
selves now,  yet  the  last  speech  drew  from  Radford 
a  sufficiently  sardonic  grin. 

"You  see  if  she  is,  old  man,"  said  he,  "and  I'll 
13 


Stingaree 

stand  by  to  collect  your  remains.  Not  but  what 
she  hasn't  come  off  the  ice,  and  looks  like  thoring 
if  you  take  her  the  right  way." 

Ted  Radford  was  a  confirmed  believer  in  the 
Tightness  of  his  own  way  with  all  mankind;  his 
admirable  confidence  had  not  been  shaken  by  a 
long  succession  of  snubs  in  the  quarter  under  dis- 
cussion. As  for  Miss  Bouverie,  it  was  her  prac- 
tice to  play  off  one  young  man  against  the  other 
by  discouraging  each  in  his  turn.  But  this  even- 
ing she  was  a  different  being.  She  had  a  vague 
yet  absolute  conviction  that  her  fortune  was  made. 
She  could  have  sung  all  her  songs  to  the  twain, 
but  for  the  reflection  that  Mr.  Clarkson  himself 
would  hear  them  too,  and  report  the  matter  to 
his  wife  on  her  return. 

And  the  next  night  the  male  trio  were  strangely 
absorbed  in  some  station  happening  which  did  not 
arouse  Miss  Bouverie's  curiosity  in  the  least. 
They  were  excited  and  yet  constrained  at  dinner, 
and  drew  their  chairs  close  together  on  the  ver- 
anda afterward.  The  young  lady  caught  at  least 
one  word  of  which  she  did  not  know  the  meaning. 
She  had  the  tact  to  keep  out  of  earshot  after  that. 
Nor  was  she  very  much  more  interested  when  she 
met  the  two  young  men  with  revolvers  in  their 
hands  the  following  day. 

14 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

"Going  to  fight  a  duel?"  she  Inquired,  smil- 
ingly, for  her  heart  was  still  singing  Grand  Opera 
and  Oratorio  by  turns. 

"More  or  less,"  returned  the  overseer,  without 
his  usual  pleasantry.  "We're  going  to  have  a 
match  at  a  target  behind  the  pines." 

The  London  bookkeeper  looked  an  anxious 
clerk:  the  girl  was  glad  when  she  saw  the  pair 
alive  at  dinner.  There  seemed  to  be  little  doing. 
Though  the  summer  was  already  tropical,  there 
had  been  plenteous  rains,  and  Mr.  Clarkson  ob- 
served in  Hilda's  hearing  that  the  recent  day's 
mustering  would  be  the  last  for  some  little  time. 
She  was  thrown  much  in  his  company,  and  she 
liked  Mr.  Clarkson  when  Mrs.  Clarkson  was  not 
there.  In  his  wife's  hands  the  good  man  was  wax; 
now  a  mere  echo,  now  a  veritable  claque  in  him- 
self, he  pandered  indefatigably  to  the  multitudi- 
nous vanities  of  a  ludicrously  vain  woman.  But  it 
was  soon  Miss  Bouverie's  experience  that  he  could, 
when  he  dared,  be  attentively  considerate  of  lesser 
ladies.  And  in  many  ways  these  were  much  the 
happiest  days  that  she  had  spent  on  the  station. 

They  were,  however,  days  of  a  consuming  ex- 
citement for  the  caged  and  gagged  nightingale 
that  Hilda  Bouverie  now  conceived  herself  to  be. 
She  sang  not  another  note  aloud.     Mr.  Clarkson 

15 


Stingaree 

lived  in  slippers  on  the  veranda,  which  Hilda  now 
associated  chiefly  with  a  stranger's  spurs:  for  of 
the  booted  and  spurred  stranger  she  was  thinking 
incessantly,  though  still  without  the  emotions  of 
an  ordinarily  romantic  temperament.  Would  he 
be  at  the  concert,  or  would  he  not?  Would  he 
turn  out  to  be  what  she  firmly  imagined  him,  or 
was  she  to  find  out  her  mistalce?  Might  he  not 
in  any  case  have  said  or  written  some  pregnant 
word  for  her?  Was  it  beyond  the  bounds  of 
possibility  that  she  should  be  asked  to  sing 
after  all? 

The  last  question  was  the  only  one  to  be  an- 
swered before  the  time,  unless  a  point-blank  in- 
quiry of  Mrs.  Clarkson  be  included  in  the  cate- 
gory. The  lady  had  returned  with  a  gorgeous 
gown,  only  less  full  of  her  experiences  than  of 
the  crowning  triumph  yet  to  come.  She  had 
bought  every  song  of  Sir  Julian's  to  be  had  in 
Melbourne,  and  his  name  was  always  on  her  lips. 
In  a  reckless  moment  Miss  Bouverie  had  inquired 
his  age. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Clarkson, 
"What  can  it  matter?" 

"I  only  wondered  whether  he  was  a  youngish 
man  or  not." 

Mrs.  Clarkson  had  already  raised  her  eye- 
i6 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

brows;  at  this  answer  they  disappeared  behind  a 
toupet  dating  from  her  late  descent  upon  the  Vic- 
torian capital. 

"Really,  Miss  Bouverie!"  she  said,  and  nothing 
more  in  words.  But  the  tone  was  intolerable, 
and  its  accompanying  sneer  a  refinement  in  vul- 
garity, which  only  the  really  refined  would  have 
resented  as  it  deserved.  Miss  Bouverie  got  up 
and  left  the  room  without  a  word.  But  her  flam- 
ing face  left  a  misleading  tale  behind. 

She  was  not  introduced  to  Sir  Julian;  but  that 
was  not  her  prime  disappointment  when  the  great 
night  came.  All  desire  for  an  introduction,  all 
interest  in  the  concert,  died  a  sudden  death  In 
Hilda  Bouverie  at  her  first  glimpse  of  the  gentle- 
man who  was  duly  presented  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  as 
Sir  Julian  Crum.  He  was  more  than  middle- 
aged;  he  wore  a  gray  beard,  and  the  air  of  a 
somewhat  supercilious  martyr;  his  near  sight  was 
obviated  by  double  lenses  In  gold  rims.  Hilda 
could  have  wept  before  the  world.  For  nearly 
three  weeks  she  had  been  bowing  in  imagination 
to  a  very  different  Sir  Julian,  bowing  as  though 
she  had  never  beheld  him  in  her  life  before;  and 
yet  in  three  minutes  she  saw  how  little  real  reason 
she  had  ever  had  for  the  illogical  conclusion  to 
which  she   had  jumped.      She   searched   for   the 

17 


Stingaree 

sprightly  figure  she  had  worn  in  her  mind's  eye; 
his  presence  under  any  other  name  would  still 
have  been  welcome  enough  now.  But  he  was  not 
there  at  all.  In  the  patchy  glare  of  the  kerosene 
lamps,  against  the  bunting  which  lined  the  corru- 
gated walls  of  Gulland's  new  iron  store,  among 
flower  and  weed  of  township  and  of  station,  did 
Miss  Bouverie  seek  in  vain  for  a  single  eye-glass 
and  a  military  mustache. 

The  concert  began.  Miss  Bouverie  opened  it 
herself  with  the  inevitably  thankless  pianoforte 
solo,  in  this  case  gratuitously  meretricious  into  the 
bargain,  albeit  the  arbitrary  choice  of  no  less  a 
judge  than  Mrs.  Clarkson.  It  was  received  with 
perfunctory  applause,  through  which  a  dissipated 
stockman  thundered  thickly  for  a  song.  Miss  Bou- 
verie averted  her  eyes  from  Sir  Julian  (ensconced 
like  Royalty  in  the  centre  of  the  first  row)  as  she 
descended  from  the  platform.  She  had  not  the 
hardihood  to  glance  toward  the  great  man  until  the 
indistinct  stockman  had  had  his  wish,  and  Mrs. 
Clarkson,  in  her  fine  new  raiment,  had  both  sung 
and  acted  a  coy  ditty  of  the  previous  decade, 
wherein  every  line  began  with  the  word  "some- 
body." It  was  an  immediate  success;  the  obstrep- 
erous stockman  led  the  encore;  but  Miss  Bouverie, 
who  duly  accompanied,  extracted  solace  from  the 

tS 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

depressed  attitude  In  which  Sir  Julian  Crum  sat 
looking  down  his  nose. 

The  township  boasted  Its  score  of  dwellings, 
but  few  of  them  showed  a  light  that  evening;  not 
less  than  ninety  of  the  round  hundred  of  Inhab- 
itants clapped  their  hands  and  mopped  their  fore- 
heads In  Gulland's  new  store.  It  might  have  been 
run  up  for  its  present  purpose.  There  was  an 
entrance  at  one  end  for  the  performers,  and  that  on 
the  platform  level,  since  the  ground  sloped  a  little; 
at  the  other  end  was  the  only  other  entrance,  by 
which  the  audience  were  admitted.  A  makeshift 
lobby  had  been  arranged  behind  the  platform,  and 
thither  Mrs.  Clarkson  retired  to  await  her  earlier 
encores;  when  the  compliment  became  a  recognized 
matter  of  course,  she  abandoned  the  mere  form  of 
a  momentary  retirement,  and  stood  patiently  smil- 
ing In  the  satin  ball-dress  brought  from  Melbourne 
for  the  nonce.  And  for  the  brief  intervals  between 
her  efforts  she  descended  to  a  throne  specially  re- 
served on  the  great  musician's  right. 

The  other  performers  did  not  dim  her  brilliance 
by  reason  of  their  own.  There  was  her  own  dear 
husband,  whose  serious  recitation  was  the  one  enter- 
taining number.  There  was  a  Rabbit  Inspector 
who  rapped  out  "The  Scout"  In  a  defiant  barytone, 
and  a  publican  whose  somewhat  uneven  tenor  was 

19 


Stingaree 


shaken  to  its  depths  by  the  simple  pathos  of  "When 
Sparrows  Build."  Mrs.  Clarkson  could  afford  to 
encourage  such  tyros  with  marked  applause.  The 
only  danger  was  that  Sir  Julian  might  think  she 
really  admired  their  untutored  attempts. 

"One  must  do  it,"  she  therefore  took  occasion 
to  explain  as  she  clapped.  "They  are  so  nervous. 
The  hard  thing  is  to  put  oneself  in  their  place;  it's 
nothing  to  me  to  sing  a  song,  Sir  Julian." 

"So  I  can  see,  madam,"  said  he. 

At  the  extremxC  end  of  the  same  row  Miss  Bou- 
verie  passed  her  unemployed  moments  between  Mr. 
Radford  and  the  wall,  and  v/as  not  easy  until  she 
had  signalled  to  little  Mr.  Hack  to  occupy  the  seat 
behind  her.  With  the  two  together  she  felt  com- 
paratively comfortable.  Mr.  Radford's  running 
criticism  on  the  performers,  always  pungent,  was 
often  amusing,  while  Mr.  Hack  lost  no  opportunity 
of  advancing  his  own  Ideals  in  the  matter  of 
musical  entertainment. 

"A  song  and  dance,"  said  he,  again  and  again, 
with  a  more  and  more  sepulchral  deviltry — "a 
song  and  dance  is  what  you  want.  You  should 
have  heard  the  Sisters  Belton  in  their  palmy  days 
at  the  Pav !  You  don't  get  the  best  of  everything 
out  here,  you  know,  Ted!" 

"No;  let's  hope  they've  got  some  better  men 
20 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

than  you,"  returned  Radford,  inspired  by  the  quo- 
rum of  three  to  make  mince-meat  of  his  friend. 

It  was  the  interval  between  parts  one  and  two. 
The  platform  was  unoccupied.  A  cool  draught 
blew  through  the  iron  building  from  open  door  to 
open  door;  there  was  no  occasion  to  go  outside. 
They  had  done  so,  however,  at  the  lower  end; 
there  was  a  sudden  stampede  of  returning  feet. 
A  something  in  the  scuffling  steps,  a  certain  outcry 
that  accompanied  them,  caused  Miss  Bouverie  and 
her  companions  to  turn  their  heads;  they  turned 
again  at  as  sudden  a  jingle  on  the  platform,  and 
the  girl  caught  her  breath.  There  stood  her  miss- 
ing hero,  smiling  on  the  people,  dapper,  swarthy, 
booted,  spurred,  and  for  one  moment  the  man  she 
had  reason  to  remember,  exactly  as  she  remem- 
bered him.  The  next  his  folded  arms  sprang  out 
from  the  shoulders,  and  a  brace  of  long-barrelled 
revolvers  covered  the  assembly. 

"Up  with  your  hands,  every  man  of  you !"  he 
cried.  "No,  not  the  ladies,  but  every  man  and  boy 
who  doesn't  want  a  bullet  in  his  brain!" 

The  command  was  echoed  in  uncouth  accents 
at  the  lower  door,  where,  in  fact,  a  bearded  savage 
had  driven  in  all  and  sundry  at  his  pistol's  point. 
And  in  a  few  seconds  the  meeting  was  one  which 
had  carried  by  overwhelming  show   of  hands  a 

21 


Stingaree 

proposition  from  which  the  ladies  alone  saw  occa- 
sion to  dissent. 

"You  may  have  heard  of  me  before,"  said  the 
man  on  the  platform,  sweeping  the  forest  of  hands 
with  his  eye-glass.     "My  name's  Stingaree." 

It  was  the  word  which  Hilda  Bouverie  had 
heard  on  the  veranda  and  taken  for  some  strange 
expletive. 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper  that  be- 
spoke excitement,  agitation,  but  not  alarm. 

"The  fancy  bushranger — the  dandy  outlaw!" 
drawled  Radford,  in  cool  reply.  "I've  been  ex- 
pecting him.  He  was  seen  on  our  run  the  day  Mrs. 
Clarkson  went  down  to  Melbourne." 

That  memorable  day  for  Hilda  Bouverie !  And 
It  was  this  manner  of  man  who  had  been  her  hero 
ever  since :  a  bushranger,  an  outlaw,  a  common 
robber  under  arms ! 

"And  you  never  told  me !"  she  cried,  In  an  In- 
dignant whisper. 

"We  never  told  Mrs.  Clarkson  either.  You 
must  blame  the  boss." 

Hilda  snatched  her  eyes  from  Stingaree,  and 
was  sorry  for  Mrs.  Clarkson  for  the  first  time  In 
their  acquaintance.  The  new  ball-dress  of  bridal 
satin  was  no  whiter  than  Its  wearer's  face,  which 
had  aged  several  years  in  as  many  seconds.     The 

22 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

squatter  leant  toward  her  with  uplifted  hands,  loy- 
ally concerned  for  no  one  and  for  nothing  else. 
Between  the  couple  Sir  Julian  might  have  been 
conducting  without  his  baton,  but  with  both  arms. 
Meanwhile,  the  flashing  eye-glass  had  fixed  itself 
on  Miss  Bouverie's  companion,  without  resting  for 
an  instant  on  Miss  Bouverie. 

"Silence  over  there!"  cried  Stingaree,  sternly. 
"I'm  here  on  a  perfectly  harmless  errand.  If  you 
know  anything  about  me  at  all,  you  may  know  that 
I  have  a  weakness  for  music  of  any  kind,  so  long 
as  It's  good  of  its  kind." 

The  eye-glass  dropped  for  a  moment  upon  Mrs. 
Clarkson  in  the  front  row,  and  the  irrepressible 
Radford  was  enabled  to  continue  his  say. 

"He  has,  too,  from  a  mouth-organ  to  a  full 
orchestra,  from  all  accounts.  Miss  Bouverie.  My 
revolver's  in  the  coat-pocket  next  you!" 

"It  is  the  music,"  continued  Stingaree,  looking 
harder  than  before  in  their  direction,  "which  has 
brought  me  here  to-night.  I've  come  to  listen,  and 
for  no  other  reason  in  the  world.  Unfortimately, 
when  one  has  a  price  upon  one's  head,  one  has  to 
take  certain  precautions  before  venturing  among 
one's  fellow-men.  And,  though  I'm  not  here  for 
gain  or  bloodshed,  if  any  man  of  you  gives  me 
trouble  I  shall  shoot  him  like  a  dog !" 

23 


Stingaree 

"That's  one  for  me,"  whispered  the  intrepid 
overseer,  In  lower  key.  "Never  mind.  He's  not 
looking  at  us  now.  I  believe  Mrs.  Clarkson's 
going  to  faint.  You  take  what  I  told  you  and  slip 
it  under  your  shawl,  and  you'll  save  a  second  by 
passing  it  up  to  me  the  instant  you  see  her  sway!" 

Hilda  hesitated.  A  dead  silence  had  fallen  on 
the  crowded  and  heated  store,  and  In  the  silence 
Stingaree  was  already  taking  an  unguarded  Inter- 
est in  Mrs.  Clarkson's  appearance,  which  as  cer- 
tainly betokened  Imminent  collapse.  "Now!" 
whispered  Radford,  and  Hilda  hesitated  no  more. 
She  was  wearing  a  black  lace  shawl  between  her 
appearances  at  the  piano;  she  had  the  revolver 
under  it  In  a  twinkling,  and  pressed  It  to  her  bosom 
with  both  hands,  one  outside  the  shawl  and  one 
underneath,  as  who  should  hug  a  beating  heart. 

"Mrs.  Clarkson,"  said  Stingaree,  "you  have 
been  singing  too  much,  and  the  quality  of  your 
song  has  not  been  equal  to  the  quantity." 

It  sounded  a  brutal  speech  enough;  and  to  do 
justice  to  a  portion  of  the  audience  not  hitherto 
remarkable  for  Its  spirit,  the  ungallant  criticism 
was  audibly  resented  in  the  back  rows.  The  maud- 
lin stockman  had  Indeed  to  be  restrained  by  his 
neighbors  from  precipitating  himself  upon  the  bar- 
rels oi  Stingaree.    But  the  effect  upon  Mrs.  Clark- 

24 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

son  herself  was  still  more  remarkable,  and  revealed 
a  subtle  kindness  in  the  desperado's  cruelty.  Her 
pale  face  flushed;  her  lack-lustre  eyes  blazed  forth 
their  indignation;  her  very  clay  was  on  fire  for  all 
the  room  to  see. 

"I  don't  sing  for  criminals  and  cut-throats!" 
the  indignant  lady  cried  out.  She  glanced  at  Sir 
Julian  as  one  for  whom  she  did  sing.  And  Sir 
Julian's  eyes  twinkled  under  the  bushranger's  guns. 

"To  be  sure  you  don't,"  said  Stingaree,  with  as 
much  sweetness  as  his  character  would  permiit. 
"You  sing  for  charity,  and  spend  three  times  as 
much  as  you  are  ever  Hkely  to  make  in  arraying 
yourself  for  the  occasion.  Well,  we  must  put  up 
with  some  song-bird  without  fine  feathers,  for  I 
mean  to  hear  the  programme  out."  His  eyes 
ranged  the  front  rows  till  they  fell  on  Hilda  Bou- 
verie  in  her  corner.  "You  young  lady  over  there ! 
You've  been  talking  since  I  called  for  silence.  You 
deserve  to  pay  a  penalty;  be  good  enough  to  step 
this  way." 

Hilda's  excitement  may  be  supposed;  it  made 
her  scandalously  radiant  in  that  company  of  humil- 
iated men  and  women,  but  it  did  not  rob  her  of  her 
resource.  Removing  her  shawl  with  apparent 
haste,  but  with  calculated  deliberation,  she  laid  it 
in  a  bunch  upon  the  seat  which  she  had  occupied, 


Stingaree 

and  stepped  forward  with  a  courage  that  won  a 
cheer  from  the  back  rows.  Stingaree  stooped  to 
hand  her  up  to  the  platform;  and  his  warm  grip 
told  a  tale.  This  was  what  he  had  come  for,  to 
make  her  sing,  to  make  her  sing  before  Sir  Julian 
Crum,  to  give  her  a  start  unique  in  the  history  of 
the  platform  and  the  stage.  Criminal,  was  he? 
Then  the  dearest,  kindest,  most  enchanting,  most 
romantic  criminal  the  world  had  ever  seen!  But 
she  must  be  worthy  of  his  chivalry  and  her  chance ; 
and,  from  the  first,  her  artistic  egoism  insisted  that 
she  was. 

Stingaree  had  picked  up  a  programme,  and  dex- 
terously mounted  it  between  hammer  and  cartridge 
of  the  revolver  which  he  had  mamentarily  relin- 
quished, much  as  a  cornet-player  mounts  his  music 
under  his  nose.  With  both  weapons  once  more 
levelled,  he  consulted  the  programme  now. 

"The  next  item,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he, 
"is  another  pianoforte  solo  by  this  young  lady. 
We'll  let  you  off  that,  Miss  Bouverie,  since  you've 
got  to  sing.  The  next  song  on  the  programme  is 
called  'The  Unrealized  Ideal,'  and  the  music  is  by 
our  distinguished  visitor  and  patron,  Sir  Julian 
Crum.  In  happier  circumstances  it  would  have 
been  sung  to  you  by  Mrs.  Montgomery  Clarkson; 
as  it  is,  I  call  upon  Miss  Bouverie  to  realize  her 

26 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

ideal  and  ours,  and  on  Sir  Julian  Crum  to  accom- 
pany her,  if  he  will." 

At  Mrs.  Clarkson's  stony  side  the  great  man 
dropped  both  arms  at  the  superb  impudence  of  the 
invitation. 

"Quite  right.  Sir  Julian;  let  the  blood  run  into 
them,"  said  Stingaree.  "It  is  a  pure  oversight  that 
you  were  not  exempted  in  the  beginning.  Comply 
with  my  entreaty  and  I  guarantee  that  you  shall 
suffer  no  further  inconvenience." 

Sir  Julian  wav^ered.  In  London  he  was  a  club- 
man and  a  diner-out;  and  what  a  tale  for  the 
Athenaeum — what  a  short  cut  to  every  ear  at  a 
Kensington  dinner-table !  In  the  end  it  would  get 
into  the  papers.  That  was  the  worst  of  it.  But  in 
the  midst  of  Sir  Julian's  hesitation  his  pondering 
eyes  met  those  of  Miss  Bouverie — on  fire  to  sing 
him  his  own  song — alight  with  the  ability  to  do  it 
justice.     And  Sir  Julian  was  lost. 

How  she  sang  it  may  be  guessed.  Sir  Julian 
bowed  and  swayed  upon  his  stool.  Stingaree 
stood  by  with  a  smile  of  personal  pride  and  re- 
sponsibilit}^  but  with  both  rev^olvers  still  levelled, 
and  one  of  them  cocked.  It  was  a  better  song  than 
he  had  supposed.  It  gained  enormously  from  the 
composer's  accompaniment.  The  last  verse  was 
softer  than  another  would  have  made  it,  and  yet 

27 


Stingaree 

the  singer  obeyed  Inaudible  instructions  as  though 
she  had  never  sung  it  otherwise.  It  was  more  in  a 
tuneful  whisper  than  in  hushed  notes  that  the  last 
words  left  her  lips: — 

"Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase; 
I  follow — follow  still;  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  Face." 

The  applause,  when  it  came,  was  almost  over- 
whelming. The  bushranger  watched  and  smiled, 
but  cocked  his  second  pistol,  and  let  the  programme 
flutter  to  the  floor.  As  for  Sir  Julian  Crum,  the 
self-contained,  the  cynical,  he  was  seen  for  an  in- 
stant, wheeled  about  on  the  music-stool,  grasping 
the  singer  by  both  hands.  But  there  was  no  hear- 
ing what  he  said;  the  girl  herself  heard  nothing 
until  he  bellowed  in  her  ear: 

"They'll  have  their  encore.  What  can  you  give 
them  ?  It  must  be  something  they  know.  'Home, 
Sweet  Home'?  'The  Last  Rose'?  'Within  a 
Mile'?  The  first,  eh?  Very  well;  it's  a  leaf  out 
of  Patti's  book;  but  so  are  they  all." 

And  he  struck  the  opening  bars  in  the  key  of  his 
own  song,  but  for  some  moments  Hilda  Bouverie 
stood  bereft  of  her  great  voice.  A  leaf  out  of 
Patti's  book.  In  that  up-country  township,  before 

28 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

n  roomful  held  In  terror — and  yet  unmindful — of 
the  loaded  pistols  of  two  bloodthirsty  bushrangers ! 
The  singer  prayed  for  power  to  live  up  to  those 
golden  words.    A  leaf  out  of  Pattl's  book ! 

It  was  over.  The  last  poignant  note  trembled 
into  nothingness.  The  silence,  absolutely  dead  for 
some  seconds,  was  then  only  broken  by  a  spirituous 
sob  from  the  incorrigible  stockman.  There  was 
never  any  applause  at  all.  Ere  It  came,  even  as  it 
was  coming,  the  overseer  Radford  leapt  to  his  feet 
with  a  raucous  shout. 

The  bushranger  had  vanished  from  the  plat- 
form. The  other  bushranger  had  disappeared 
through  the  other  door.  The  precious  pair  of 
them  had  melted  from  the  room  unseen,  unheard, 
what  time  every  eye  doted  on  handsome  Hilda 
Bouverle,  and  every  ear  on  the  simple  words  and 
moving  cadences  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

Ted  Radford  was  the  first  to  see  It;  for  by  the 
end  of  the  brief  song  he  had  his  revolver  uncovered 
and  cocked  at  last,  and  no  quarry  left  for  him  to 
shoot.  With  a  bound  he  was  on  the  platform; 
another  carried  him  Into  the  canvas  anteroom,  a 
third  and  a  fourth  out  into  the  moonlight.  It  was 
as  bright  as  noon  In  a  conservatory  of  smoked  glass. 
And  in  the  tinted  brightness  one  man  was  already 
galloping  away;  but  it  was  Stingaree  who  danced 

29 


Stingaree 

with  one  foot  only  in  the  stirrup  of  a  milk-white 
mare. 

Radford  rushed  up  to  him  and  fired  point- 
blank  again  and  again.  A  series  of  metallic  clicks 
was  all  the  harm  he  did,  for  Stingaree  was  in 
the  saddle  before  the  hurled  revolver  struck  the 
mare  on  the  ribs,  and  sent  the  pair  flying  through 
the  moonlight  with  a  shout  of  laughter,  a  cloud 
of  sand,  and  a  dull  volley  of  thunderous  hoofs. 
The  overseer  picked  up  his  revolver  and  returned 
crestfallen  to  examine  it  in  the  lights  of  the  empty- 
ing room. 

"I  could  have  sworn  I  loaded  it,"  said  he.  "If 
I  had,  he'd  have  been  a  dead  man  six  times  over." 

Miss  Bouverie  had  been  talking  to  Sir  Julian 
Crum.  On  Radford's  entry  she  had  grown  dis- 
traite, but  at  Radford's  speech  she  turned  back 
to  Sir  Julian  with  shining  eyes. 

"My  wife  wants  a  companion  for  the  voyage," 
he  was  saying.  "So  that  will  cost  you  nothing, 
but  if  anything  the  other  way,  and  once  in  Lon- 
don, I'll  be  answerable.  I've  adjudicated  these 
things  for  years  to  voices  not  in  the  same  class  as 
yours.  But  the  worst  of  it  is  you  won't  stay 
with  us." 

"I  will." 

"No;  they'll  want  you  at  Covent  Garden  before 
30 


A  Voice  in  the  Wilderness 

we  know  where  we  are.     And  when  you  are  ready 
to  go  to  them,  go  you  must," 
"I  shall  do  what  you  tell  me." 
"Then  speak  to  Mrs.  Clarkson  at  once." 
Hilda  Bouverie  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  but 
her  employers  had  left  the  building.     Her  smile 
was  less  roguish  than  demure. 

"There  is  no  need.  Sir  Julian.  Mrs.  Clarkson 
has  already  spoken  to  me,  though  only  in  a  whis- 
per. But  I  am  to  take  myself  off  by  the  next 
coach." 


^l 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

T  was  coming  up  the  Murrumbidgee  that 
Fergus  Carrlck  first  heard  the  name  of  Sting- 
aree.  With  the  cautious  enterprise  of  his  race, 
the  young  gentleman  had  booked  steerage  on  a 
river  steamer  whose  sohtary  passenger  he  proved 
to  be;  accordingly  he  was  not  only  permitted  to 
sleep  on  the  saloon  settee  at  nights,  but  graciously 
bidden  to  the  captain's  board  by  day.  It  was  there 
that  Fergus  Carrick  encouraged  tales  of  the  bush- 
rangers as  the  one  cleanly  topic  familiar  in  the 
mouth  of  the  elderly  engineer  who  completed  the 
party.  And  it  seemed  that  the  knighthood  of  the 
up-country  road  had  been  an  extinct  order  from 
the  extirpation  of  the  Kellys  to  the  appearance  of 
this  same  Stingaree,  who  was  reported  a  man  of 
birth  and  mysteiy,  Vv^ith  an  ostentatious  passion  for 
music  and  as  romantic  a  method  as  that  of  any 
highwayman  of  the  Old  World  from  which  he 
hailed.  But  the  callow  Fergus  had  been  spared 
the  romantic  temperament,  and  was  less  impressed 
than  entertained  with  what  he  heard. 

On  his  arrival  at  Glenranald,  however,  he  found 
3^ 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

that  substantial  township  shaking  with  laughter 
over  the  outlaw's  latest  and  least  discreditable  ex- 
ploit, at  the  back-block  hamlet  of  Yallarook;  and 
then  it  was  that  young  Carrick  first  conceived  an 
ambition  to  open  his  Colonial  career  with  the  cap- 
ture of  Stingaree;  for  he  was  a  serious  immigrant, 
who  had  come  out  in  his  teens,  to  stay  out,  if 
necessary,  for  the  term  of  his  natural  life. 

The  idea  haci  birth  under  one  of  the  many  pine 
trees  which  shaded  the  skeleton  streets  of  budding 
Glenranald.  On  this  tree  was  nailed  a  placard 
offering  high  reward  for  the  bushranger's  person 
alive  or  dead.  Fergus  was  making  an  immediate 
note  in  his  pocketbook  when  a  hand  fell  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Would  ye  like  the  half  o'  yon?"  inquired  a 
voice  in  his  own  tongue;  and  there  at  his  elbow 
stood  an  elderly  gentleman,  whose  patriarchal 
beard  hid  half  the  buttons  of  his  alpaca  coat,  while 
a  black  skull-cap  sat  somewhat  jauntily  on  his 
head. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Fergus,  bluntly, 
for  the  old  gentleman  stood  chuckling  gently  in 
his  venerable  beard. 

"To  lay  a  hold  of  him,"  replied  the  other, 
"with  the  help  o'  some  younger  and  abler-bodied 
man;  and  you're  the  very  one  I  want." 

33 


Stingaree 

The  raw  youth  stared  ingenuously. 

"But  what  can  you  know  about  me?" 

"I  saw  ye  land  at  the  wharf,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman, nodding  his  approval  of  the  question, 
"and  says  I,  'That's  my  man,'  as  soon  as  ever  I 
clapped  eyes  on  ye.  So  I  had  a  crack  wi'  the 
captain  o'  yon  steamer;  he  told  me  you  hadna  a 
billet,  but  were  just  on  the  lookout  for  the  best  ye 
could  get,  an'  that's  all  he'd  been  able  to  get  out 
o'  ye  in  a  five  days'  voyage.  That  was  enough  for 
me.  I  want  a  m.an  who  can  keep  his  tongue  be- 
hind his  teeth,  and  I  wanted  you  before  I  knew 
you  were  a  brither  Scot!" 

"Are  you  a  squatter,  sir?"  the  young  man  asked, 
a  little  overwhelmed. 

"No,  sir,  I'm  branch  manager  o'  the  Bank  o' 
New  South  Vv-^ales,  the  only  bank  within  a  hunder 
miles  o'  where  we  stand;  and  I  can  offer  ye  a  better 
billet  than  any  squatter  in  the  Colony." 

"Indeed?  I'm  sure  you're  very  kind,  sir,  but 
I'm  wanting  to  get  on  a  station,"  protested  Fergus 
with  all  his  tact.  "And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have 
Introductions  to  one  or  two  stations  further  back, 
though  I  saw  no  reason  to  tell  our  friend  the 
skipper  so." 

"Quite  right,  quite  right!  I  like  a  man  who 
can  keep  his  tongue  in  its  kennel!"  cried  the  bank 

34 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

manager,  rubbing  his  hands.  "But  wait  while  I 
tell  ye:  ye'd  need  to  work  for  your  rations  an  any 
station  I  ever  heard  tell  of,  and  I  keep  the  accounts 
of  enough  to  know.  Now,  with  me,  ye'd  get  two 
pound  a  week  till  your  share  o'  the  reward  was 
wiped  off;  and  if  we  had  no  luck  for  a  year  you'd 
be  no  worse  off,  but  could  go  and  try  your  squatters 
then.  That's  a  promise,  and  I'll  keep  it  as  sure 
as  my  name's  Andr'  Macbean!" 

"But  how  do  you  propose  to  catch  this  fellow, 
Mr.  Macbean?" 

The  bank  manager  looked  on  all  sides,  likewise 
behind  the  tree,  before  replying  under  his  breath: 
"By  setting  a  wee  trap  for  him !  A  bank's  a  bank, 
and  Stingaree  hasna  stuck  one  up  since  he  took  to 
his  trade.  But  I'll  tell  ye  no  more  till  ye  give  me 
your  answer.     Yes  or  no?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  even  write  an  office  hand; 
and  as  for  figures " 

Mr.  Macbean  laughed  outright. 

"Did  I  say  I  was  going  to  take  ye  into  the  bank, 
mun?"  cried  he.  "There's  three  of  us  already  to 
do  the  writin'  an'  the  cipherin,'  an'  three's  enough. 
Can  you  ride?" 

"I  have  ridden." 

"And  ye'U  do  any  rough  job  I  set  ye  to?" 

"The  rougher  the  better." 
35 


Stingaree 

"That's  all  I  ask.  There's  a  buggy  and  a  pair  for 
ye  to  mind,  and  mebbe  drive,  though  it's  horseback 
errands  you'll  do  most  of.  I'm  an  old  widower, 
living  alone  with  an  aged  housekeeper.  The  cash- 
ier and  the  clerk  dig  in  the  township,  and  I  need 
to  have  a  man  of  some  sort  about  the  place;  in 
fact,  I  have  one,  but  I'll  soon  get  rid  of  him  if 
you'll  come  instead.  Understand,  you  live  in  the 
house  with  me,  just  like  the  jackeroos  on  the  sta- 
tions; and  like  the  jackeroos,  you  do  all  the  odd 
jobs  and  dirty  work  that  no  one  else'll  look  at; 
but,  unlike  them,  you  get  two  pounds  a  week  from 
the  first  for  doing  it." 

Mr.  Andrew  Macbean  had  chanced  upon  a 
magic  word.  It  was  the  position  of  "jackeroo,'^ 
or  utility  parlor-man,  on  one  or  other  of  the  sta- 
tions to  which  he  carried  introductions,  that  his 
young  countryman  had  set  before  him  as  his  goal. 
True,  a  bank  in  a  bush  township  was  not  a  station 
in  the  bush  itself.  On  the  other  hand,  his  would-be 
friend  was  not  the  first  to  warn  Fergus  against  the 
futility  of  expecting  more  than  a  nominal  salary 
as  a  babe  and  suckling  in  Colonial  experience;  and 
perhaps  the  prime  elements  of  that  experience 
might  be  gained  as  well  in  the  purlieus  of  a  suffi- 
ciently remote  township  as  in  realms  unnamed  on 
any  map.     It  will  be  seen,  that  the  sober  stripling 

36 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

was  reduced  to  arguing  with  himself,  and  that  his 
main  argument  was  not  to  be  admitted  in  his  own 
heart.  The  mysterious  eccentricity  of  his  em- 
ployer, coupled  with  the  adventurous  character  of 
his  alleged  prospects,  was  what  induced  the  lad 
to  embrace  both  in  defiance  of  an  unimaginative 
hard-headedness  which  he  aimed  at  rather  than 
possessed. 

With  characteristic  prudence  he  had  left  his 
baggage  on  board  the  river-steamer,  and  his  own 
hands  carried  it  piecemeal  to  the  bank.  This  was 
a  red-brick  bungalow  with  an  ample  veranda, 
standing  back  from  the  future  street  that  was  as 
yet  little  better  than  a  country  road.  The  veranda 
commanded  a  long  perspective  of  pines,  but  no  fur- 
ther bricks  and  mortar,  and  but  very  few  weather 
board  walls.  The  yard  behind  the  house  was  shut 
in  by  as  many  outbuildings  as  clustered  about  the 
small  homesteads  which  Fergus  had  already  beheld 
on  the  banks  of  the  Murrumbidgee.  The  man 
in  charge  of  the  yard  was  palpably  in  liquor,  a 
chronic  condition  from  his  general  appearance,  and 
Mr.  Macbean  discharged  him  on  the  spot  with  a 
decision  which  left  no  loophole  for  appeal.  The 
woman  in  charge  of  the  house  adorned  another 
plane  of  civilization;  she  was  very  deaf,  and  very 
outspoken  on  her  introduction  to  the  young  gen- 

Z7 


Stingaree 

tleman,  whose  face  she  was  pleased  to  approve, 
with  the  implied  reservation  that  all  faces  were 
liars ;  but  she  served  up  the  mutton  of  the  country- 
hot  and  tender;  and  Fergus  Carrick,  leaning  back 
after  an  excellent  repast,  marvelled  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  that  he  was  not  to  pay  for  It. 

"A  teetotaler,  are  ye?"  said  Macbean,  mixing  a 
third  glass  of  whiskey,  with  the  skull-cap  on  the 
back  of  his  head.  "And  so  was  I  at  your  age;  but 
you're  my  very  man.  There  are  som.e  it  sets  talk- 
ing. Wait  till  the  old  lady  turns  In,  and  then  you 
shall  see  what  you  shall  see." 

Fergus  waited  In  Increasing  excitement.  The 
day's  events  were  worthier  of  a  dream.  To  have 
set  foot  in  Glenranald  without  knowing  a  soul 
In  the  place,  and  to  find  one's  self  comfortably 
housed  at  a  good  salary  before  night!  There 
were  moments  when  he  questioned  the  complete 
sanity  of  his  eccentric  benefactor,  who  drank 
whiskey  like  water,  both  as  to  quantity  and  effect, 
and  who  chuckled  continuously  in  his  huge  gray 
beard.  But  such  doubts  only  added  to  the  excite- 
ment of  the  evening,  which  reached  a  cHmax  when 
a  lighted  candle  was  thrust  in  at  the  door  and  the 
pair  advised  not  to  make  a  night  of  It  by  the  candid 
crone  on  her  way  to  bed. 

"We  will  give  her  twenty  minutes,"  said  the 
38 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

manager,  winking  across  his  glass.  "I've  never 
let  her  hear  me,  and  she  mustn't  hear  you  either. 
She  must  know  nothing  at  all  about  it;  nobody 
must,  except  you  and  me." 

The  mystification  of  Fergus  was  now  complete. 
Unimaginative  as  he  was  by  practice  and  profes- 
sion, he  had  an  explanation  a  minute  until  the 
time  was  up,  when  the  truth  beat  them  all  for 
wild  improbability.  Macbean  had  risen,  lifting 
the  lamp;  holding  It  on  high  he  led  the  way 
through  baize  doors  into  the  banking  premises. 
Here  was  another  door,  which  Macbean  not  only 
unlocked,  but  locked  again  behind  them  both.  A 
small  Inner  office  led  them  into  a  shuttered  cham- 
ber of  fair  size,  with  a  broad  polished  counter, 
glass  swing-doors,  and  a  formidable  portal  be- 
yond. And  one  of  young  Carrick's  theories  re- 
ceived apparent  confirmation  on  the  spot;  for  the 
manager  slipped  behind  his  counter  by  another 
door,  and  at  once  whipped  out  a  great  revolver. 

"This  they  provide  us  with,"  said  he.  "So  far 
It  is  our  only  authorized  defence,  and  It  hangs  on 
a  hook  down  here  behind  the  counter.  But  you 
march  in  here  prepared,  your  pistol  cocked  behind 
your  back,  and  which  of  us  Is  likely  to  shoot  first?" 

"The  bushranger,"  said  Fergus,  still  rather 
more  startled  than  reassured. 

39 


Stingaree 

"The  bushranger,  of  course.  Stingaree,  let  us 
say.  As  for  me,  either  my  arms  go  up,  or  down 
I  go  in  a  heap.  But  supposing  my  arms  do  go  up 
— supposing  I  still  touch  something  with  one  foot 
— and  supposing  the  floor  just  opens  and  swallows 
Mr.  Sanguinary  Stingaree!  Eh?  eh?  What 
then?" 

"It  would  be  great,"  cried  Fergus.  "But  could 
it  be  done?" 

"It  can  be,  It  will  be,  and  is  being  done,"  re- 
plied the  manager,  replacing  the  bank  revolver 
and  sliding  over  the  counter  like  a  boy.  A  square 
of  plain  linoleum  covered  the  floor,  overlapped  by 
a  border  of  the  same  material  bearing  a  design. 
Down  went  Macbean  upon  his  knees,  and  his 
beard  swept  this  border  as  he  began  pulling  it  up, 
tacks  and  all. 

The  lamp  burned  brightly  on  the  counter,  its 
rays  reflected  in  the  burnished  mahogany.  All  at 
once  Fergus  seized  it  on  his  own  initiative,  and 
set  it  on  the  floor  before  his  kneeling  elder,  going 
upon  his  own  knees  on  the  other  side.  And  where 
the  plain  linoleum  ended,  but  where  the  overlap- 
ping border  covered  the  floor,  the  planks  were  sawn 
through  and  through  down  one  side  of  the  central 
and  self-colored  square. 

"A  trap-door !"  exclaimed  Fergus  in  a  whisper. 
40 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

Macbean  leant  back  on  his  slippered  heels,  his 
skull-cap  wickedly  awry. 

"This  border  takes  a  lot  o'  lifting,"  said  he. 
*'Yet  we've  just  got  to  lift  it  every  time,  and  tack 
it  down  again  before  morning.  You  might  try 
your  hand  over  yonder  on  the  far  side." 

Fergus  complied  with  so  much  energy  that  the 
whole  border  was  ripped  up  in  a  minute;  and  he 
was  not  mistaken.  A  trap-door  it  was,  of  huge 
dimensions,  almost  exactly  covered  by  the  self- 
colored  square;  but  at  each  side  a  tongue  of  lino- 
leum had  been  left  loose  for  lifting  it;  and  the 
lamp  had  scarcely  been  replaced  upon  the  counter 
when  the  bulk  of  the  floor  leaned  upright  In  one 
piece  against  the  opposite  w^all.  It  had  uncovered 
a  pit  of  corresponding  size,  but  as  yet  hardly  deep 
enough  to  afford  a  hiding-place  for  the  bucket, 
spade,  and  pickaxe  which  lay  there  on  a  length  of 
sacking. 

"I  see!"  exclaimed  Carrlck,  as  the  full  light 
flooded  his  brain. 

"Is  that  a  fact?"  inquired  the  manager  twink- 
ling. 

"You're  going  to  make  a  deep  hole  of  It ?" 

"No.  I'm  going  to  pay  you  to  make  It  deep 
for  me " 

"And  then " 

41 


Stingaree 

"At  dead  o'  night;  you  can  take  out  your  sleep 
by  day." 

"When  Stingaree  comes " 

"If  he  waits  till  we're  ready  for  him " 

"You  touch  some  lever " 

"And  the  floor  swallows  him,  as  I  said,  if  he 
waits  till  we  are  ready  for  him.  Everything  de- 
pends on  that — and  on  your  silence.  We  must 
take  time.  It  isn't  only  the  digging  of  the  hole. 
We  need  to  fix  up  some  counterpoise  to  make  it 
shut  after  a  body  like  a  mouse-trap;  we  must  do 
the  thing  thoroughly  if  we  do  it  at  all;  and  till  it's 
done,  not  a  word  to  a  soul  in  the  same  hemisphere  ! 
In  the  end  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  tell  Donkin, 
my  cashier,  and  Fowler  the  clerk.  Donkin's  a 
disbeliever  who  deserves  the  name  o'  Didymus 
more  than  ony  mon  o'  my  acquaintance.  Fowler 
would  take  so  kindly  to  the  whole  idea  that  he'd 
blurt  it  out  within  a  week.  He  may  find  it  out 
when  all's  in  readiness,  but  I'll  no  tell  him  even 
then.     See  how  I  trust  a  brither  Scot  at  sight !" 

"I  much  appreciate  it,"  said  Fergus,  humbly. 

"I  wouldna  ha'  trustit  even  you,  gin  I  hadna 
found  the  delvin'  ill  worrk  for  auld  shoulders," 
pursued  Macbean,  broadening  his  speech  with  in- 
tentional humor.  "Noo,  wull  ye  do't  or  wull 
ye  no?" 

42 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

The  young  man's  answer  was  to  strip  off  his 
coat  and  spring  into  the  hole,  and  to  set  to  work 
with  such  energy,  yet  so  quietly,  that  the  bucket 
was  filled  in  a  few  almost  silent  seconds.  Macbean 
carried  it  off,  unlocking  doors  for  the  nonce,  while 
Fergus  remained  in  the  hole  to  mop  his  forehead. 

"We  need  to  have  another  bucket,"  said  the 
manager,  on  his  return.  "I've  thought  of  every 
other  thing.  There's  a  disused  well  in  the  yard, 
and  down  goes  every  blessed  bucket!" 

To  and  fro,  over  the  lip  of  the  closing  well, 
back  into  the  throat  of  the  deepening  hole,  went 
the  buckets  for  many  a  night;  and  by  day  Fergus 
Carrick  employed  his  best  wits  to  make  an  intrinsi- 
cally anomalous  position  appear  natural  to  the 
world.  It  was  a  position  which  he  himself  could 
thoroughly  enjoy;  he  was  largely  his  own  master. 
He  had  daily  opportunities  of  picking  up  the  ways 
and  customs  of  the  bush,  and  a  nightly  excitement 
which  did  not  pall  as  the  secret  task  approached 
conclusion;  but  he  was  subjected  to  much  chaff  and 
questioning  from  the  other  young  bloods  of  Glen- 
ranald. He  felt  from  the  first  that  it  was  what  he 
must  expect.  He  was  a  groom  with  a  place  at  his 
master's  table;  he  was  a  jackeroo  who  introduced 
station  life  into  a  town.  And  the  element  of  under- 
lying mystery,  really  existing  as  it  did,  was  detected 

43 


Stingaree 

soon  enough  by  other  young  heads,  led  by  that  oi 
Fowler,  the  keen  bank  clerk. 

"I  was  looking  at  you  both  together,  and  you 
do  favor  the  old  man,  and  no  error!"  he  would 
say;  or  else,  "What  is  it  you  could  hang  the  boss 
for,  Fergy,  old  toucher?" 

These  delicate  but  cryptic  sallies  being  ignored 
or  parried,  the  heavy  swamp  of  innuendo  was  in- 
variably deserted  for  the  breezy  hill-top  of  plain 
speech,  and  Fergus  had  often  work  enough  to  put 
a  guard  upon  hand  and  tongue.  But  his  tempera- 
ment was  eminently  self-contained,  and  on  the 
whole  he  was  an  elusive  target  for  the  witticisms 
of  his  friends.  There  was  no  wit,  however,  and 
no  attempt  at  it  on  the  part  of  Donkin,  the  can- 
tankerous cashier.  He  seldom  addressed  a  word 
to  Carrick,  never  a  civil  word,  but  more  than  once 
he  treated  his  chief  to  a  sarcastic  remonstrance  on 
his  degrading  familiarit}^  with  an  underling.  In 
such  encounters  the  imperturbable  graybeard  was 
well  able  to  take  care  of  himself,  albeit  he  expressed 
to  Fergus  a  regret  that  he  had  not  exercised  a  little 
more  ingenuity  in  the  beginning. 

"You  should  have  come  to  me  with  a  letter  of 
introduction,"  said  he. 

"But  who  would  have  given  me  one?" 

"I  would,  yon  first  night,  and  vou'd  have  pre- 
44 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

sented  It  next  day  in  office  hours,"  replied  the  man- 
ager. "But  It's  too  late  to  think  about  It  now,  and 
In  a  few  days  Donkin  may  know  the  truth." 

He  might  have  known  It  already,  but  for  one 
difficulty.  They  had  digged  their  pit  to  the  gener- 
ous depth  of  eight  feet,  so  that  a  tall  prisoner  could 
barely  touch  the  trap-door  with  extended  finger- 
tips; and  Stingaree  (whose  latest  performance  was 
no  longer  the  Yallarook  affair)  was  of  medium 
height  according  to  his  police  description.  The 
trap-door  was  a  double  one,  which  parted  In  the 
centre  with  the  deadly  precision  of  the  gallows 
floor.  The  difficulty  was  to  make  the  flaps  close 
automatically,  with  the  mouse-trap  effect  of  Mac- 
bean's  ambition.  It  was  managed  eventually  by 
boring  separate  wells  for  a  weight  behind  the 
hinges  on  either  side.  Copper  wire  running  on 
minute  pulleys  let  Into  grooves  suspended  these 
weights  and  connected  them  with  the  flaps,  and 
powerful  door-springs  supplemented  the  more  elab- 
orate contrivance.  The  lever  controlling  the  whole 
was  concealed  under  the  counter,  and  reached  by 
thrusting  a  foot  through  a  panel,  which  also  opened 
inward  on  a  spring. 

It  may  be  conceived  that  all  this  represented  the 
midnight  labors  and  the  constant  thought  of  many 
weeks.     It  was  now  the  beginning  of  the  cool  but 

45 


Stingaree 

brilliant  Riverina  winter,  and,  despite  the  dis- 
parity in  their  years,  the  two  Scotsmen  were  fast 
friends.  They  had  worked  together  as  one  man, 
with  the  same  patient  passion  for  perfection,  the 
same  delight  in  detail  for  its  own  sake.  Almost  the 
only  difference  was  that  the  old  fellow  refreshed 
his  energies  with  the  glass  of  whiskey  which  was 
never  far  from  his  elbow  after  banking  hours, 
while  the  young  one  cultivated  the  local  excess  of 
continual  tea.  And  all  this  time  the  rascally  Sting- 
aree ranged  the  district,  w^Ith  or  without  his  taci- 
turn accomplice,  covering  great  distances  in  fabu- 
lous time,  lurking  none  knew  where,  and  springing 
on  the  unwary  In  the  last  places  in  which  his  pres- 
ence was  suspected. 

"But  he  has  not  yet  robbed  a  bank,  and  we  have 
our  hopes,"  wrote  Fergus  to  a  faithful  sister  at 
Largs.  "It  may  be  for  fear  of  the  revolvers  with 
which  all  the  banks  are  provided  now.  Mr.  Mac- 
bean  has  been  practising  with  ours,  and  purposely 
put  a  bullet  through  one  of  our  back  windows.  The 
whole  tovv-nshlp  has  been  chafing  him  about  it,  and 
the  local  rag  has  risen  to  a  sarcastic  paragraph, 
which  is  exactly  what  we  wanted.  The  trap-door 
over  the  pit  is  now  practically  finished.  It's  too 
complicated  to  describe,  but  Stingaree  has  only  to 
march  into  the  bank  and  'stick  It  up,'  and  the  man 

46 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

behind  the  counter  has  only  to  touch  a  lever  with 
his  foot  for  the  villain  to  disappear  through  the 
floor  into  a  prison  it'll  take  him  all  his  time  to 
break.  On  Saturday  the  cashier  and  the  clerk  are 
coming  to  dinner,  and  before  we  sit  down  they  are 
to  be  shown  everything." 

This  was  but  a  fraction  of  one  of  the  long  let- 
ters which  Fergus  despatched  by  nearly  every  mail. 
Silent  and  self-contained  as  he  was,  he  had  one 
confidante  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  earth,  one 
escape-pipe  in  his  pen.  Not  a  word  of  the  great 
secret  had  he  even  written  to  another  soul.  To 
his  trusted  sister  he  had  never  before  been  quite  so 
communicative.  His  conscience  pricked  him  as 
he  took  his  letter  to  the  post,  and  he  had  it  regis- 
tered on  no  other  score. 

On  Saturday  the  bank  closed  at  one  o'clock;  the 
staff  were  to  return  and  dine  at  seven,  the  Queen's 
birthday  falling  on  the  same  day  for  a  sufficient 
pretext.  As  the  hour  approached  Fergus  made  the 
distressing  discovery  that  his  friend  and  host  had 
anticipated  the  festivities  with  too  free  a  hand. 
Macbean  was  not  drunk,  but  he  was  perceptibly 
blunted  and  blurred,  and  Fergus  had  never  seen 
the  pale  eyes  so  watery  or  the  black  skull-cap  so 
much  on  one  side  of  the  venerable  head.  The  lad 
was  genuinely  grieved.     A  whiskey  bottle  stood 

47 


Stingaree 


empty  on  the  laden  board,  and  he  had  the  temerity 
to  pocket  the  corkscrew  while  Macbean  was  gone 
to  his  storeroom  for  another  bottle.  A  solemn 
search  ensued,  and  then  Fergus  was  despatched  in 
haste  for  a  new  corkscrew. 

"An'  look  slippy,"  said  Macbean,  "or  we'll 
have  old  Donkin  here  before  ye  get  back." 

"Not  for  another  three-quarters  of  an  hour," 
remarked  Fergus,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"Any  minute!"  retorted  Macbean,  with  a  ribald 
epithet.  "I  invited  Donkin,  In  confidence,  to  come 
a  good  half-hour  airly,  and  FU  tell  ye  for  why. 
Donkin  must  ken,  but  Fm  none  so  sure  o'  yon 
other  Impident  young  squirt.  His  tongue's  too 
long  for  his  mouth.  Donkin  or  I  could  always  be 
behind  the  counter;  anyway,  I  mean  to  take  his 
opeenion  before  tellln'  any  other  body." 

Entertaining  his  own  distrust  of  the  vivacious 
Fowler,  Fergus  commended  the  decision,  and  so 
took  his  departure  by  the  private  entrance.  It 
was  near  sundown;  a  fresh  breeze  blew  along  the 
hard  road,  puffing  cloudlets  of  yellow  sand  into 
the  rosy  dusk.  Fergus  hurried  till  he  was  out  of 
sight,  and  then  Idled  shamelessly  under  trees.  He 
was  not  going  on  for  a  new  corkscrew.  He  was 
going  back  to  confess  boldly  where  he  had  found 
the  old  one.    And  the  sight  of  Donkin  in  the  dis- 

48 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

tance  sent  him  back  in  something  of  a  hurry;  it 
was  quite  enough  to  have  to  spend  an  evening  with 
the  cantankerous  cashier. 

The  bank  was  practically  at  one  end  of  the  town- 
ship as  then  laid  out;  two  or  three  buildings  there 
were  further  on,  but  they  stood  altogether  aloof. 
The  bank,  for  a  bank,  was  sufficiently  isolated,  and 
Fergus  could  not  but  congratulate  himself  on  the 
completion  of  its  ingenious  and  unsuspected  de- 
fences. It  only  remained  to  keep  the  inventor 
reasonably  sober  for  the  evening,  and  thereafter 
to  whistle  or  to  pray  for  Stingaree.  Meanwhile 
the  present  was  no  mean  occasion,  and  Fergus  was 
glad  to  see  that  Macbean  had  thrown  open  the  offi- 
cial doors  in  his  absence.  They  had  often  agreed 
that  it  would  be  worth  all  their  labor  to  enlighten 
Donkin  by  letting  the  pit  gape  under  his  nose  as 
he  entered  the  bank.  Fergus  glanced  over  his 
shoulder,  saw  the  other  hurrying,  and  hurried  him- 
self in  order  to  take  up  a  good  position  for  seeing 
the  cashier's  face.  He  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
treacherous  floor  before  he  perceived  that  it  was 
not  Macbean  in  the  half-light  behind  the  counter, 
but  a  good-looking  man  whom  he  had  never  seen 
before. 

"Didn't  know  I  was  invited,  eh?"  said  the 
stranger,  putting  up  a  single  eye-glass.      "Don't 

49 


Stingaree 

believe  It,  perhaps?  You'd  better  ask  Mr.  Mac- 
bean!" 

And  before  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  stir  from 
where  he  stood  agape,  the  floor  fell  from  under  the 
feet  of  Fergus,  his  body  lurched  forward,  and  came 
down  flat  and  heavy  on  the  hard  earth  eight  feet 
below.  Not  entirely  stunned,  though  shaken  and 
hurt  from  head  to  heel,  he  was  still  collecting  his 
senses  when  the  pit  blackened  as  the  trap-door  shut 
in  implicit  obedience  to  its  weights  and  springs. 
And  in  the  clinging  velvet  darkness  the  young  man 
heard  a  groan. 

"Is  that  yourscl',  Fergy?" 

"And  are  you  there,  Mr.  Macbean?" 

"Mon,  didn't  it  shut  just  fine !" 

Curiously  blended  with  the  physical  pain  in  the 
manager's  voice  was  a  sodden  philosophic  humor 
which  maddened  the  younger  man.  Fergus  swore 
where  he  lay  writhing  on  his  stomach.  Macbean 
chuckled  and  groaned  again. 

"It's  Stingaree,"  he  said,  drawing  a  breath 
through  his  teeth. 

"Of  course  it  is." 

"I  never  breathed  it  to  a  soul." 

"No  more  did  I." 

Fergus  spoke  with  ready  confidence,  and  yet 
the  words  left  something  on  his  mind.     It  was 

50 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

something  vague  but  haunting,  something  that 
made  him  feel  instinctively  unworthy  of  the  kindly, 
uncomplaining  tone  which  had  annoyed  him  but  a 
moment  before. 

"No  bones  broken,  Fergy  ?" 

"None  that  I  know  of." 

"I  doubt  I've  not  been  so  lucky.  I'm  thinkin' 
it's  a  rib,  by  the  way  it  hurts  to  breathe." 

Fergus  was  already  fumbling  In  his  pocket.  The 
match-box  opened  with  a  click.  The  match  scraped 
several  times  In  vain.  Then  at  last  the  scene  sprang 
out  as  on  the  screen  of  a  magic-lantern.  And  to 
Fergus  It  was  a  very  white  old  man,  hunched  up 
against  the  muddy  wall,  with  blood  upon  his  naked 
scalp  and  beard,  and  both  hands  pressed  to  his 
side;  to  the  old  man,  a  muddy  face  stricken  with 
horrified  concern,  and  a  match  burning  down  be- 
tween muddy  fingers;  but  to  both,  such  a  new  view 
and  version  of  their  precious  hole  that  the  corners 
of  each  mouth  were  twitching  as  the  match  was 
thrown  away. 

Fergus  was  fumbling  for  another  when  a  step 
rang  overhead;  and  at  the  sharp  exchange  of  words 
which  both  underground  expected,  Fergus  came 
on  all  fours  to  the  old  man's  side,  and  together 
they  sat  gazing  upward  Into  the  pall  of  Impenetra- 
ble crape. 

51 


Stingaree 

"You  infernal  villain  !"  they  heard  Donkin  roar, 
and  stamp  his  feet  with  such  effect  that  the  floor 
opened,  and  down  through  the  square  of  light 
came  the  cashier  feet  first. 

"Heaven  and  hell!"  he  squealed,  but  subsided 
unhurt  on  hands  and  knees  as  the  flaps  went  up 
with  such  a  snap  that  Macbean  and  Carrick  nudged 
each  other  at  the  same  moment.  "Now  I  know 
who  you  are!"  the  cashier  raved.  "Call  yourself 
Stingaree !  You're  Fowler  dressed  up,  and  this 
is  one  of  Macbean's  putrid  practical  jokes.  I  saw 
his  jackal  hurrying  in  to  say  I  was  coming.  By 
cripes !  it  takes  a  surgical  operation  to  see  their 
sort,  I  grant  you." 

There  was  a  noise  of  subdued  laughter  ov^er- 
head;  even  in  the  pit  a  dry  chuckle  came  through 
Macbean's  set  teeth. 

"If  it's  practical  joke  o'  mine,  Donkin,  it's  re- 
coiled on  my  own  poor  pate,"  said  the  old  man. 
"I've  a  rib  stove  in,  too,  if  that's  any  consolation 
to  ye.     It's  Stingaree,  my  manny!" 

"You're  right,  it  is,  it  must  be!"  cried  the  cash- 
ier, finding  his  words  in  a  torrent.  "I  was  going 
to  tell  you.  He's  been  at  his  game  down  south; 
stuck  up  our  own  mail  again  only  yesterday,  be- 
tween this  and  Deniliquin,  and  got  a  fine  haul  of 
registered   letters,   so  they  say.      But  where  the 

52' 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

deuce  are  we?  I  never  knew  there  was  a  cellar 
under  here,  let  alone  a  trap-door  that  might  have 
been  made  for  these  villains." 

"It  was  made  for  them,"  replied  Macbean,  after 
a  pause;  and  in  the  dead  dark  he  went  on  to  relate 
the  frank  and  humble  history  of  the  hole,  from  its 
inception  to  the  crooked  climax  of  that  bitter  hour. 
A  braver  confession  Fergus  had  never  heard;  its 
philosophic  flow  was  unruffled  by  the  more  and 
more  scornful  interjections  of  the  ungenerous  cash- 
ier; and  yet  his  younger  counti-yman,  who  might 
have  been  proud  of  him,  hardly  listened  to  a  word 
uttered  by  Macbean. 

Half-a-dozen  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Donkin 
had  lightened  young  Carrick's  darkness  with  con- 
suming fires  of  shame.  "A  fine  haul  of  registered 
letters" — among  others  his  own  last  letter  to  his 
sister!  So  it  was  he  who  had  done  it  all;  and  he 
had  perjured  himself  to  his  benefactor,  besides,  be- 
traying him.  He  sat  in  the  dark  between  fire  and 
ice,  chiefly  wondering  how  he  could  soonest  win 
through  the  trap-door  and  earn  a  bullet  in  his  brain. 

"The  spree  to-night,"  concluded  Macbean, 
whose  fall  completely  sobered  him,  "was  for  the 
express  purpose  of  expounding  the  trap  to  you,  and 
I  asked  you  airly  to  take  your  advice.  I  was  no  so 
sure  about  young  Fowler,  whether  we  need  tell 

53 


Stingaree 

him  or  no.  He  has  an  awful  long  tongue ;  but  I'm 
thinkin'  there's  a  longer  if  I  knew  where  to  look 
for  it." 

"I  could  tell  you  where,"  rasped  Donkin.  "But 
go  on." 

"I  was  watching  old  Hannah  putting  her  feen- 
Ishing  touches  to  the  table,  and  waiting  for  Fergus 
Carrick  to  come  back,  when  I  thought  I  heard  him 
behind  me  and  you  with  him.  But  it  vv^as  Stingaree 
and  his  mate,  and  the  two  of  us  were  covered  with 
revolvers  like  young  rifles.  Hannah  they  told  to 
go  on  with  what  she  was  doing,  as  they  were 
mighty  hungry,  and  I  advised  her  to  do  as  she  was 
bid.  The  brute  with  the  beard  has  charge  of  her. 
Stingaree  himself  drove  me  into  the  middle  of  my 
own  trap-door,  made  me  give  up  my  keys,  and 
then  went  behind  the  counter  and  did  the  trick. 
He'd  got  it  all  down  on  paper,  the  Lord  alone 
knows  how." 

"Oh,  you  Scotchmen!"  cried  the  pleasant  cash- 
ier. "Talk  of  your  land  of  cakes !  You  take 
every  cake  in  the  land  between  you !" 

It  seemed  he  had  been  filling  his  pipe  while  he 
listened  and  prepared  this  pretty  speech.  Now  he 
struck  a  match,  and  with  the  flame  to  the  bowl  saw 
Fergus  for  the  first  time.  The  cashier  held  the 
match  on  high. 

54 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

"You  hear  all  the  while?"  he  cried.  "No  won- 
der you  lay  low,  Carrick;  no  wonder  I  didn't  hear 
your  voice." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  growled  Fergus, 
in  fierce  heat  and  fierce  satisfaction. 

"Surely,  Mr.  Macbean,  you  aren't  wondering 
who  wagged  the  long  tongue  now?" 

"You  mean  that  I  wagged  mine?  And  it's  a 
lie!"  said  Fergus,  hoarsely;  he  was  sitting  upon 
his  heels,  poised  to  spring. 

"I  mean  that  if  Mr.  Macbean  had  listened  to 
me  two  months  ago  we  should  none  of  us  be  in  this 
hole  now." 

"Then,  my  faith,  you're  In  a  worse  one  than 
you  think!"  cried  Fergus,  and  fell  upon  his  tra- 
ducer  as  the  match  went  out.  "Take  that,  and 
that,  and  that!"  he  ground  out  through  his  teeth, 
as  he  sent  the  cashier  over  on  his  back  and  pounded 
the  earth  with  his  skull.  Luckily  the  first  was  soft 
and  the  second  hard,  so  that  the  man  was  more  out- 
raged than  hurt  when  circumstances  which  they 
might  have  followed  created  a  diversion. 

In  his  turn  the  lively  Fowler  had  marched  whist- 
ling into  the  bank,  had  ceased  whistling  to  swear 
down  the  barrel  of  a  cocked  revolver,  and  met  a 
quicker  fate  than  his  comrades  by  impressing  the 
bushranger  as  the  most  dangerous  man  of  the 

55 


Stingaree 

quartette.  Unfortunately  for  him,  his  fate  was 
still  further  differentiated  from  theirs.  Fowler's 
feet  glanced  off  Carrick's  back,  and  he  plunged  into 
the  well  head-first,  rolling  over  like  a  stone  as  the 
wooden  jaws  above  closed  greedily  upon  the  light 
of  day. 

Fergus  at  once  struck  matches,  and  in  their  light 
the  cashier  took  the  insensible  head  upon  his  knees 
and  glared  at  his  enemy  as  if  from  sanctuary  of 
the  Red  Cross.  But  Fergus  returned  to  Macbean's 
side. 

"I  never  said  a  word  to  a  living  soul,"  he  mut- 
tered.    "It  has  come  out  some  other  way." 

"Of  course  it  has,"  said  the  old  manager,  with 
the  same  tell-tale  inhalation  through  the  teeth. 
Fergus  felt  worse  than  ever.  He  groped  for  the 
bald  head  and  found  it  cold  and  dank.  In  an  in- 
stant he  was  clamoring  under  the  trap-door,  leap- 
ing up  and  striking  it  with  his  fist. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Whiskey.     Some  of  us  are  hurt." 

"God  help  you  if  it's  any  hanky-panky!" 

"It's  none.  Something  to  drink,  and  something 
to  drink  it  in,  or  there's  blood  upon  your  head!" 

Clanking  steps  departed  and  returned. 

"Stand  by  to  catch,  below  there!" 

And  Fergus  stood  by,  expecting  to  see  a  long 
56 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

barrel  with  the  bottle  and  glass  that  broke  their 
fall  on  him;  but  Stingaree  had  crept  away  unheard, 
and  he  pressed  the  lever  just  enough  to  let  the  glass 
and  bottle  tumble  through. 

Time  passed:  it  might  have  been  an  hour.  The 
huddled  heap  that  was  Macbean  breathed  forth 
relief.  The  head  on  Donkin's  knees  moved  from 
side  to  side  with  groans.  Donkin  himself  thanked 
Fergus  for  his  ration;  he  who  served  it  out  alone 
went  thirsty.  "Wait  till  I  earn  some,"  he  said  bit- 
terly to  himself.  "I  could  finish  the  lot  if  I  started 
now."  But  the  others  never  dreamt  that  he  was 
waiting,  and  he  lied  about  it  to  Macbean. 

Now  that  they  sat  in  silence  no  sound  escaped 
them  overhead.  They  heard  Stingaree  and  his 
mate  sit  down  to  a  feast  which  Macbean  described 
with  groaning  modesty  as  the  best  that  he  could  do. 

"There's  no  soup,"  he  whispered,  "but  there's 
a  barr'l  of  oysters  fetched  up  on  purpose  by  the 
coach.  I  hope  they  havena  missed  the  Chablis. 
They  may  as  well  do  the  thing  complete."  In  a 
little  the  champagne  popped.  "Dry  Monopole !" 
moaned  the  manager,  near  to  tears.  "It  came  up 
along  with  the  oysters.  O  sirs,  O  sirs,  but  this  is 
hard  on  us  all !  Now  they're  at  the  turkey — and 
I  chopped  the  stuffing  with  my  ain  twa  ban's!" 

They  were  at  the  turkey  a  long  time.  Another 
57 


Stingaree 

cork  popped;  but  the  familiar  tread  of  deaf  Han- 
nah was  heard  no  more,  and  at  length  they  called 
her. 

"Mother!"  roared  a  mouth  that  was  full. 

"Old  lady!"  cried  the  gallant  Stingaree. 

"She's  'ard  of  'earing,  mate." 

"She  might  still  hear  you,  Howie." 

And  the  chairs  rasped  backward  over  bare 
boards  as  one;  at  the  same  instant  Fergus  leapt  to 
his  feet  in  the  earthly  Tartarus  his  own  hands  had 
dug. 

"I  do  believe  she's  done  a  bolt,"  he  gasped, 
"and  got  clean  away!" 

Curses  overhead  confirmed  the  supposition. 
Clanking  feet  hunted  the  premises  at  a  run.  In  a 
minute  the  curses  were  renewed  and  multipHed, 
yet  muffled,  as  though  there  was  some  fresh  cause 
for  them  which  the  prisoners  need  not  know.  Han- 
nah had  not  been  found.  Yet  some  disturbing  dis- 
covery had  undoubtedly  been  made.  Doors  were 
banged  and  bolted.  A  gunshot  came  faint  but 
staccato  from  the  outer  world.  A  real  report 
echoed  through  the  bank. 

"A  siege!"  cried  Fergus,  striking  a  match  to 
dance  by.  "The  old  heroine  has  fetched  the  po- 
lice, and  these  beauties  are  in  a  trap." 

"And  what  about  us?"  demanded  the  cashier. 
58 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

"Shut  up  and  listen !"  retorted  Fergus,  without 
ceremony.  Macbean  was  leaning  forward,  with 
bald  head  on  one  side  and  hollowed  palm  at  the 
upper  ear.  Even  the  stunned  man  had  recovered 
sufficiently  to  raise  himself  on  one  elbow  and  gaze 
overhead  as  Fergus  struck  match  after  match.  The 
villains  were  having  an  altercation  on  the  very 
trap-door. 

"Now's  the  time  to  cut  and  run — now  or  never." 
"Very  well,  you  do  so.     I'm  going  through  the 
safe." 

"You  should  ha'  done  that  first." 
"Better  late  than  not  at  all." 
"You  can't  stop  and  do  it  without  me." 
"Oh,  yes,  I  can.     I'll  call  for  a  volunteer  from 
below.     You  show  them  your  spurs  and  save  your 
skin." 

"Oh,  I'll  stay,  curse  you,  I'll  stay!" 
"And  I'll  have  my  volunteer,  whether  you  stay 
or  not." 

The  pair  had  scarcely  parted  when  the  trap-door 
opened  slowly  and  stayed  open  for  the  first  time. 
The  banking  chamber  was  but  dimly  lit,  and  the 
light  in  the  pit  less  than  it  had  been  during  the 
brief  burning  of  single  matches.  No  peering  face 
was  revealed  to  those  below,  but  the  voice  of  Sting- 
aree  came  rich  and  crisp  from  behind  the  counter. 

59 


Stingaree 

"Your  old  woman  has  got  away  to  the  police- 
barracks  and  the  place  Is  surrounded.  One  of  you 
has  got  to  come  up  and  help,  and  help  fair,  or  go 
to  hell  with  a  bullet  in  his  heart.  I  give  you  one 
minute  to  choose  your  man." 

But  in  one  second  the  man  had  chosen  himself. 
Without  a  word,  or  a  glance  at  any  of  his  compan- 
ions, but  with  a  face  burning  with  extraordinary 
fires,  Fergus  Carrick  sprang  for  the  clean  edge  of 
the  trap-door,  caught  it  first  with  one  hand  and 
then  with  both,  drew  himself  up  like  the  gymnast 
he  had  been  at  his  Scottish  school,  and  found  him- 
self prone  upon  the  floor  and  trap-door  as  the  lat- 
ter closed  under  him  on  the  release  of  the  lever 
which  Stingaree  understood  so  well.  A  yell  of 
execration  followed  him  into  the  upper  air.  And 
Stingaree  was  across  the  counter  before  his  new 
ally  had  picked  himself  up. 

"That's  because  this  was  expected  of  me,"  said 
Fergus,  grimly,  to  explain  the  cashier's  reiterated 
anathemas.  "I  was  the  writer  of  the  registered 
letter  that  led  to  all  this.  So  now  I'm  going  the 
v/hole  hog." 

And  the  blue  eyes  boiled  In  his  brick-red 
face. 

"You  mean  that?    No  nonsense?" 

"You  shall  see." 

60 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

"I  should  shoot  you  like  a  native  cat." 

"You  couldn't  do  me  a  better  turn." 

"Right!  Swear  on  your  knees  that  you  won't 
use  It  against  me  or  my  mate,  and  I'll  trust  you 
with  this  revolver.  You  may  fire  as  high  as  you 
please,  but  they  must  think  we're  three  Instead  of 
two." 

Fergus  took  the  oath  in  fierce  earnest  upon  his 
knees,  was  handed  the  weapon  belonging  to  the 
bank,  and  posted  in  his  own  bedroom  window  at 
the  rear  of  the  building.  The  front  was  secure 
enough  with  the  shutters  and  bolts  of  the  official 
fortress.  It  was  to  the  back  premises  that  the  at- 
tack confined  itself,  making  all  use  of  the  admira- 
ble cover  afforded  by  the  stables. 

Carrick  saw  heads  and  shoulders  hunched  to 
aim  over  stable-doors  as  he  obeyed  his  orders  and 
kept  his  oath.  His  high  fire  drew  a  deadlier  upon 
himself;  a  stream  of  lead  from  a  Winchester 
whistled  Into  the  room  past  his  ear  and  over  his 
ducked  head.  He  tried  firing  from  the  floor  with- 
out showing  his  face.  The  Winchester  let  him 
alone;  In  a  sudden  sickness  he  sprang  up  to  see 
If  anything  hung  sprawling  over  the  stable-door, 
and  was  In  time  to  see  men  In  retreat  to  right  and 
left,  the  white  pugarees  of  the  police  fluttering 
Ingloriously    among   them.      Only    one    was   left 

6i 


Stingaree 

upon  the  ground,  and  he  could  sit  up  to  nurse  a 
knee. 

Fergus  sighed  relief  as  he  sought  Stingaree,  and 
found  him  with  a  comical  face  before  the  open 
safe. 

"House  full  of  paltry  paper!"  said  he.  "I  sup- 
pose it's  the  old  sportsman's  custom  to  get  rid  of 
most  of  his  heavy  metal  before  closing  on  Sat- 
urdays?" 

Fergus  said  it  was;  he  had  himself  stowed  many 
a  strong-box  aboard  unsuspected  barges  for 
Echuca. 

"Well,  now's  our  time  to  leave  you,"  continued 
Stingaree.  "If  I'm  not  mistaken,  their  flight  is 
simply  for  the  moment,  and  in  two  or  three  more 
they'll  be  back  to  batter  in  the  bank  shutters.  I 
wonder  what  they  think  we've  done  with  our 
horses?  I'll  bet  they've  looked  everywhere  but  in 
the  larder  next  the  kitchen  door — not  that  we  ever 
let  them  get  so  close.  But  my  mate's  in  there  now, 
mounted  and  waiting,  and  I  shall  have  to  leave 
you." 

"But  I  was  coming  with  you,"  cried  Fergus, 
aghast. 

Stingaree's  eye-glass  dangled  on  its  cord. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  trouble  you  to  step  into  that 
safe  instead,"  said  he,  smiling. 

62 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

"Man,  I  mean  it!  You  think  I  don't.  I've 
fought  on  your  side  of  my  own  free  will.  How 
can  I  live  that  down?  It's  the  only  side  for  me 
for  the  rest  of  time !" 

The  fixed  eye-glass  covered  the  brick-red  face 
with  the  molten  eyes. 

"I  believe  you  do  mean  it." 

"You  shall  shoot  me  if  I  don't." 

"I  most  certainly  should.  But  my  mate  Howie 
has  his  obvious  limitations.  I've  long  wanted  a 
drop  of  new  blood.  Barmaid's  thoroughbred  and 
strong  as  an  elephant;  we're  neither  of  us  heavy- 
weights; by  the  powers,  I'll  trast  you,  and  you 
shall  ride  behind!" 

Now,  Barmaid  was  the  milk-white  mare  that 
was  only  less  notorious  than  her  lawless  rider.  It 
was  noised  in  travellers'  huts  and  around  camp- 
fires  that  she  would  do  more  at  her  master's 
word  than  had  been  known  of  horse  outside  a  cir- 
cus. It  was  the  one  touch  that  Stingaree  had  bor- 
rowed from  a  more  Napoleonic  but  incomparably 
coarser  and  crueller  knight  of  the  bush.  In  all 
other  respects  the  pi  de  Steele  desperado  was 
unique.  It  w^as  a  stroke  of  luck,  however,  that 
there  happened  to  be  an  old  white  mare  in  the  bank 
stables,  which  the  police  had  impounded  with  sol- 
emn care  while  turning  ever}'  other  animal  adrift. 

63 


Stingaree 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  not  a  shot  followed  the 
mounted  bushrangers  into  the  night,  and  that  long 
before  the  bank  shutters  were  battered  in  the  flying 
trio  were  miles  away. 

Fergus  flew  like  a  runaway  bride,  his  arms  about 
the  belted  waist  of  Stingaree.  Trees  loomed  ahead 
and  flew  past  by  the  clump  under  a  wonderful  wide 
sky  of  scintillating  stars.  The  broad  bush  track 
had  very  soon  been  deserted  at  a  tangent;  through 
ridges  and  billows  of  salt-bush  and  cotton-bush 
they  sailed  with  the  swift  confidence  of  a  well- 
handled  clipper  before  the  wind.  Stingaree  was 
the  leader  four  miles  out  of  five,  but  in  the  fifth 
his  mate  Howie  would  gallop  ahead,  and  anon 
they  would  come  on  him  dismounted  at  a  wire 
fence,  with  the  wires  strapped  down  and  his  horse 
tethered  to  one  of  the  posts  till  he  had  led  Barmaid 
over. 

It  was  thus  they  careered  across  the  vast  chess- 
board of  the  fenced  back-blocks  at  dead  of  night. 
Stingaree  and  Fergus  sat  saddle  and  bareback  with- 
out a  break  until  near  dawn  their  pioneer  spurred 
forward  yet  again  and  was  swallowed  in  a  steely 
haze.  It  was  cold  as  a  sharp  spring  night  in  Eng- 
land. But  for  a  mile  or  more  Fergus  had  clung  on 
with  but  one  arm  round  the  bushranger's  waist; 
now  the  right  arm  came  stealing  back;  felt  some- 

64 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

thing  cold  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  and  plucked 
prodigiously,  and  in  another  fraction  an  icy  ring 
mouthed  Stingaree's  neck. 

"Pull  up,"  said  Fergus,  hoarsely,  "or  your 
brains  go  flying." 

"Little  traitor !"  whispered  the  other,  with  an 
imprecation  that  froze  the  blood. 

"I  am  no  traitor.  I  swore  I  wouldn't  abuse  the 
revolver  you  gave  me,  and  it's  been  in  my  pocket 
all  the  night." 

"The  other's  unloaded." 

"You  wouldn't  sit  so  quiet  if  it  were.  Now, 
round  we  go,  and  back  on  our  tracks  full  split. 
It's  getting  light,  and  we  shall  see  them  plain.  If 
you  vary  a  yard  either  way,  or  if  your  mate  catches 
us,  out  go  your  brains." 

The  bushranger  obeyed  without  a  word.  Fer- 
gus was  almost  unnerved  by  the  incredible  ease  of 
his  conquest  over  so  redoubtable  a  ruffian.  His 
stolid  Scottish  blood  stood  by  him ;  but  still  he  made 
grim  apology  as  they  rode. 

"I  had  to  do  it.  It  was  through  me  you  got  to 
know.  I  had  to  live  that  down ;  this  was  the  only 
way." 

"You  have  spirit.  If  you  would  still  be  my 
mate " 

"Your  mate !  I  mean  this  to  be  the  making  of 
65 


Stingaree 

me  as  an  honesr  man.  Here's  the  fence.  I  give 
you  two  minutes  to  strap  it  down  and  get  us  over." 

Stingaree  slid  tamely  to  the  ground. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  get  through  those  wires! 
Strap  it  from  this  side  with  your  belt,  and  strap  it 
quick!" 

And  the  bushranger  obeyed  with  the  same  sensi- 
ble docihty,  but  with  his  back  turned,  so  that 
Fergus  could  not  see  has  face;  and  it  was  light 
enough  to  see  faces  now;  yet  Barmaid  refused  the 
visible  wires,  as  she  had  not  refused  them  all  that 
night  of  indigo  starlight. 

"Coax  her,  man!"  cried  Fergus,  in  the  saddle 
now,  and  urging  the  mare  with  his  heels.  So 
Stingaree  whispered  in  the  mare's  ear;  and  with 
that  the  strapped  wires  flew  under  his  captor's 
nose,  as  the  rider  took  the  fence,  but  not  the  horse. 

At  a  single  syllable  the  milk-white  mare  had 
gone  on  her  knees,  like  devout  lady  in  holy  fane; 
and  as  she  rose  her  last  rider  lay  senseless  at  her 
master's  feet;  but  whether  from  his  fall,  or  from 
a  blow  dealt  him  in  the  act  of  falling,  the  unhappy 
Fergus  never  knew.  Indeed,  knowledge  for  him 
was  at  an  end  until  matches  burnt  under  his  nose 
awakened  him  to  a  position  of  the  last  humiliation. 
His  throat  and  chin  topped  a  fence-post,  the 
weight  of  his  body  was  on  chin  and  throat,  while 

66 


"Any  message,  young  fellow' 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

wrists  and  muscles  were  lashed  at  full  stretch  to 
the  wires  on  either  side. 

"Now  I'm  going  to  shoot  you  like  a  dog,"  said 
Stingaree.  He  drew  the  revolver  whose  muzzle 
had  pressed  into  his  own  neck  so  short  a  time  be- 
fore. Yet  now  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  the  sun 
coming  up  in  the  bound  youth's  eyes  for  the  last 
time. 

"Shoot  away!"  he  croaked,  raising  the  top  of 
his  head  to  speak  at  all.  "I  gave  you  leave  before 
we  started.     Shoot  away!" 

"At  ten  paces,"  said  Stingaree,  stepping  them. 
"That,  I  think,  is  fair." 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Fergus.  "But  be  kind 
enough  to  make  this  so-called  man  of  yours  hold 
his  foul  tongue  till  I'm  out  of  earshot  of  you 
all." 

Huge  Howie  had  muttered  little  enough  for 
him,  but  to  that  little  Stingaree  put  an  instantane- 
ous stop. 

"He's  a  dog,  to  be  shot  like  a  dog,  but  too  good 
a  dog  for  you  to  blackguard!"  cried  he.  "Any 
message,  young  fellow?" 

"Not  through  you." 

"So  long,  then!" 

"Shoot  away!" 

The  long  barrel  was  poised  as  steadily  as  field- 
^7 


Stingaree 

gun  on  Its  carriage.     Fergus  kept  his  blue  eyes  on 
the  gleaming  ring  of  the  muzzle. 

The  hammer  fell,  the  cartridge  cracked,  and 
from  the  lifted  muzzle  a  tiny  cloud  flowed  like  a 
bubble  from  a  pipe.  The  post  quivered  under 
Carrick's  chin,  and  a  splinter  flew  up  and  down 
before  his  eyes.     But  that  was  all. 

"Aim  longer,"  said  he.     "Get  it  over  this  shot." 

'Til  try." 

But  the  same  thing  happened  again. 

"Come  nearer,"  sneered  Fergus. 

And  Stingaree  strode  forward  with  an  oath. 

"I  was  going  to  give  you  six  of  them.  But 
you're  a  braver  man  than  I  thought.  And  that's 
the  lot." 

The  bound  youth's  livid  face  turned  redder  than 
the  red  dawn. 

"Shoot  me — shoot!"  he  shouted,  like  a  lunatic. 

"No,  I  shall  not.  I  never  meant  to — I  did  mean 
you  to  sit  out  six — but  you're  the  most  gallant  little 
idiot  Fve  ever  struck.  Besides,  you  come  from  the 
old  country,  like  myself!" 

And  a  sigh  floated  into  the  keen  morning  air  as 
he  looked  his  last  upon  the  lad  through  the  cele- 
brated monocle. 

"Then  Fll  shoot  myself  when  Fm  free,"  sobbed 
Fergus  through  his  teeth. 

68 


The  Black  Hole  of  Glenranald 

*'Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  were  Stingaree's  last 
words.    "You'll  find  it's  not  a  bit  worth  while." 

And  when  the  mounted  police  and  others  from 
Glenranald  discovered  the  trussed  youngster,  not 
an  hour  later,  they  took  the  same  tone.  And  on3 
and  all  stopped  and  stooped  to  peer  at  the  two>  bul- 
let-holes in  the  post,  and  at  something  underneath 
them,  before  cutting  poor  Fergus  down. 

Then  they  propped  him  up  to  read  with  his  own 
eyes  the  nailed  legend  which  first  helped  Fergus 
Carrick  to  live  down  the  indiscretion  of  his  letter 
to  Largs,  and  then  did  more  for  him  in  that  Colony 
than  letter  from  Queen  Victoria  to  His  Excellency 
of  New  South  Wales.     For  it  ran : — 

"This  is  the  gamest  little  cock  I  have  ever 
STRUCK.     He  had  me  captive  once^  could   have 

SHOT    ME   OVER    AND   OVER   AGAIN^   AND    ALL    BUT    TOOK 

ME  ALIVE.     More  power  to  him! 

"Stingaree/' 


69 


«To  the  Vile  Dust" 

VANHEIMERT  had  been  In  many  dust- 
storms,  but  never  in  such  a  storm  so  far 
from  the  haunts  of  men.  Awaking  in  his  blanket 
with  his  mouth  full  of  sand,  he  had  opened  his  eyes 
to  the  blinding  sting  of  a  storm  which  already 
shrouded  the  very  tree  under  which  he  lay.  Other 
landmarks  there  were  none;  the  world  was  swal- 
lowed in  a  yellow  swirl  that  turned  browner  and 
more  opaque  even  as  Vanheimert  shook  himself 
out  of  his  blanket  and  ran  for  the  fence  as  for  his 
life.  He  had  only  left  it  in  order  to  camp  where 
his  tree  had  towered  against  the  stars;  it  could  not 
be  a  hundred  yards  away;  and  along  the  fence  ran 
that  beaten  track  to  which  the  bushman  turned 
instinctively  in  his  panic.  In  a  few  seconds  he  was 
groping  with  outstretched  hands  to  break  the  vio- 
lence of  a  collision  with  invisible  wires;  in  a  few 
minutes,  standing  at  a  loss,  wondering  where  the 
wires  or  he  had  got  to,  and  whether  it  would  not  be 
wise  to  retrace  his  steps  and  try  again.  And  while 
he  wondered  a  fit  of  coughing  drove  the  dust  from 
his  mouth  like  smoke;  and  even  as  he  coughed  the 

70 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

thickening  swirl  obliterated  his  tracks  as  swiftly  as 
heavy  snow. 

Speckled  eyeballs  stood  out  of  a  sanded  face  as 
Vanheimert  saw  himself  adrift  and  drowning  in 
the  dust.  He  was  a  huge  young  fellow,  and  it  was 
a  great  smooth  face,  from  which  the  gaping  mouth 
cut  a  slice  from  jaw  to  jaw.  Terror  and  rage,  and 
an  overpowering  passion  of  self-pity,  convulsed  the 
coarse  features  in  turn;  then,  with  the  grunt  of  a 
wounded  beast,  he  rallied  and  plunged  to  his  de- 
struction, deeper  and  deeper  into  the  bush,  further 
and  further  from  the  fence. 

The  trees  were  few  and  mostly  stunted,  but  Van- 
heimert crashed  into  more  than  one  upon  his  head- 
long course.  The  sense  was  choked  out  of  him 
already;  he  was  fleeing  on  the  wings  of  the  storm; 
of  direction  he  thought  no  more.  He  forgot  that 
the  run  he  had  been  traversing  was  at  the  best 
abandoned  by  man  and  beast;  he  forgot  the  "spell" 
that  he  had  promised  himself  at  the  deserted  home- 
stead where  he  had  once  worked  as  a  lad.  He 
might  have  remembered  that  the  paddock  in  which 
he  was  burying  himself  had  always  been  the  largest 
in  the  district.  It  was  a  ten-mile  block  without 
subdividing  fence  or  drop  of  water  from  end  to 
end.  The  whole  station  was  a  howling  desert, 
little  likely  to  be  stocked  a  second  time  by  enlight- 

71 


Stingaree 

ened  man.  But  this  was  the  desert's  heart,  and 
Into  it  sped  Vanheimert,  coated  yellow  to  the  eyes 
and  lips,  the  dust-fiend  himself  in  visible  shape. 
Now  he  staggered  in  his  stride,  now  fell  headlong 
to  cough  and  sob  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  The 
unfortunate  young  man  had  the  courage  of  his 
desperate  strait.  Many  times  he  arose  and  hurled 
himself  onward  with  curse  or  prayer;  many  times 
he  fell  or  flung  himself  back  to  earth.  But  at  length 
the  storm  passed  over  and  over  his  spent  members; 
sand  gathered  by  the  handful  in  the  folds  of  his 
clothes;  the  end  was  as  near  as  end  could  be. 

It  was  just  then  that  two  riders,  who  fancied 
they  had  heard  a  voice,  struck  an  undoubted  trail 
before  it  vanished,  and  followed  it  to  the  great 
sprawling  body  in  which  the  dregs  of  life  pulsed 
feebly.  The  thing  groaned  as  it  was  lifted  and 
strapped  upon  a  horse;  it  gurgled  gibberish  at  the 
taste  of  raw  spirits  later  in  the  same  hour.  It  was 
high  noon  before  Vanheimert  opened  a  seeing  eye 
and  blinked  it  in  the  unveiled  sun. 

He  was  lying  on  a  blanket  in  a  treeless  hollov/ 
in  the  midst  of  trees.  The  ground  had  been  cleared 
by  no  human  hand;  it  was  a  little  basin  of  barren 
clay,  burnt  to  a  brick,  and  drained  by  the  tiny 
water-hole  that  sparkled  through  Its  thatch  of 
leaves  and  branches  In  the  centre  of  a  natural  clr- 

72 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

cle.  Vanhelmert  lay  on  the  eastern  circumference; 
it  was  the  sun  falling  sheer  on  his  upturned  face 
that  cut  short  his  sleep  of  deep  exhaustion.  The 
sky  was  a  dark  and  limpid  blue;  but  every  leaf 
within  Vanheimert's  vision  bore  its  little  load  of 
sand,  and  the  sand  was  clotted  as  though  the  dust- 
storm  had  ended  with  the  usual  shower.  Vanhei- 
mert  turned  and  viewed  the  sylvan  amphitheatre; 
on  its  far  side  were  two  small  tents,  and  a  man  in 
a  folding  chair  reading  the  Australasian.  He  closed 
the  paper  on  meeting  Vanheimert's  eyes,  went  to 
one  of  the  tents,  stood  a  moment  looking  in,  and 
then  came  across  the  sunlit  circle  with  his  news- 
paper and  the  folded  chair. 

"And  how  do  you  feel  now?"  said  he,  setting 
up  the  chair  beside  the  blanket,  but  still  standing 
as  he  surveyed  the  prostrate  man,  with  dark  eyes 
drawn  together  in  the  shade  of  a  great  straw  som- 
brero. 

"Fine!"  replied  Vanhelmert,  huskily.  "But 
where  am  I,  and  who  are  you  chaps?    Rabbiters?" 

As  he  spoke,  however,  he  searched  for  the  in- 
evitable strings  of  rabbit  skins  festooned  about  the 
tents,  and  found  them  not. 

"If  you  like,"  replied  the  other,  frowning  a 
little  at  the  immediate  curiosity  of  the  rescued  man. 

"I  don't  like,"  said  Vanheimert,  staring  un- 
7Z 


Stingaree 

abashed.  "I'm  a  rabbiter  myself,  and  know  too 
much.  It  ain't  no  game  for  abandoned  stations, 
and  you  don't  go  playin'  it  in  top-boots  and  spurs. 
Where's  your  skins  and  where's  your  squatter  to 
pay  for  'em?     Plucky  rabbiters,  you  two!" 

And  he  gazed  across  the  open  toward  the  fur- 
ther tent,  which  had  just  disgorged  a  long  body 
and  a  black  beard  not  wholly  unfamiliar  to  Van- 
heimert.  The  dark  man  was  a  shade  darker  as 
he  followed  the  look  and  read  its  partial  recogni- 
tion; but  a  grim  light  came  with  quick  resolve,  and 
it  was  with  sardonic  deliberation  that  an  eyeglass 
was  screwed  into  one  dark  eye. 

"Then  what  should  you  say  that  we  are?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  cried  Vanheimert,  turning 
pale;  for  he  had  been  one  of  the  audience  at  Mrs. 
Clarkson's  concert  in  Gulland's  store,  and  in  con- 
secutive moments  he  had  recognized  first  Howie 
and  now  Stingaree. 

"You  know  well  enough  !" 

And  the  terrible  eye-glass  covered  him  like  a 
pistol. 

"Perhaps  I  can  guess,"  faltered  Vanheimert,  no 
small  brain  working  in  his  prodigious  skull. 

"Guess,  then!" 

"There  are  tales  about  a  new  chum  camping  by 

himself — that  Is,  just  with  one  man " 

74 


«To  the  Vile  Dust" 

"And  what  object?" 

"To  get  away  from  the  world,  sir." 

"And  where  did  you  hear  these  tales?" 

"All  along  the  road,  sir." 

The  chastened  tone,  the  anxious  countenance, 
the  sudden  recourse  to  the  servile  monosyllable, 
were  none  of  them  lost  on  Stingaree;  but  he  him- 
self had  once  set  such  a  tale  abroad,  and  it  might 
be  that  the  present  bearer  still  believed  it.  The 
eye-glass  looked  him  through  and  through.  Van- 
heimert  bore  the  inspection  like  a  man,  and  was 
soon  satisfied  that  his  recognition  of  the  outlaw 
was  as  yet  quite  unsuspected.  He  congratulated 
himself  on  his  presence  of  mind,  and  had  sufficient 
courage  to  relish  the  excitement  of  a  situation  of 
which  he  also  perceived  the  peril. 

"I  suppose  you  have  no  recollection  of  how  you 
got  here?"  at  length  said  Stingaree. 

"Not  me.  I  only  remember  the  dust-storm." 
And  Vanheimert  shuddered  where  he  lay  In  the 
sun.  "But  I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  sir,  for  sav- 
ing my  life." 

"You  are,  are  you?" 

"Haven't  I  cause  to  be,  sir?" 

"Well,  I  dare  say  we  did  bring  you  round  be- 
tween us,  but  it  was  pure  luck  that  we  ever  came 
across  you.     And  now  I  should  lie  quiet  if  I  were 


Stingaree 

you.  In  a  few  minutes  there'll  be  a  pannikin  of 
tea  for  you,  and  after  that  you'll  feel  a  different 
man." 

Vanheimert  lay  quiet  enough;  there  was  much 
to  occupy  his  mind.  Instinctively  he  had  assumed 
a  part,  and  he  was  only  less  quick  to  embrace  the 
necessity  of  a  strictly  consistent  performance. 
He  watched  Stingaree  in  close  conversation  with 
Howie,  who  was  boiling  the  billy  on  a  spirit-lamp 
between  the  two  tents,  but  he  watched  them  with 
an  admirable  simulation  of  idle  unconcern.  They 
were  talking  about  him,  of  course;  more  than  once 
they  glanced  in  his  direction;  and  each  time  Van- 
heimert congratulated  himself  the  more  heartily 
on  the  ready  pretence  to  which  he  was  committed. 
Let  them  but  dream  that  he  knew  them,  and  Van- 
heimert gave  himself  as  short  a  shrift  as  he  would 
have  granted  in  their  place.  But  they  did  not 
dream  it,  they  were  off  their  guard,  and  rather 
at  his  mercy  than  he  at  theirs.  He  might  prove 
the  immediate  instrument  of  their  capture — why 
not?  The  thought  put  Vanheimert  in  a  glow;  on 
the  blanket  where  they  had  laid  him,  he  dwelt  on 
it  without  a  qualm;  and  the  same  wide  mouth 
watered  for  the  tea  which  these  villains  were  mak- 
ing, and  for  their  blood. 

It  was  Howie  who  came  over  with  the  steam- 
76 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

ing  pannikin,  and  watched  Vanheimert  as  he 
sipped  and  smacked  his  lips,  while  Stingaree  at 
his  distance  watched  them  both.  The  pannikin 
was  accompanied  by  a  tin-plate  full  of  cold  mutton 
and  a  wedge  of  baking-powder  bread,  which 
between  them  prevented  the  ravening  man  from 
observing  how  closely  he  was  himself  observed 
as  he  assuaged  his  pangs.  There  was,  however, 
something  in  the  nature  of  a  muttered  altercation 
between  the  bushrangers  when  Howie  was  sent 
back  for  more  of  everything.  Vanheimert  put  It 
down  to  his  own  demands,  and  felt  that  Stingaree 
was  his  friend  when  It  was  he  who  brought  the 
fresh  supplies. 

"Eat  away,"  said  Stingaree,  seating  himself  and 
producing  pipe  and  tobacco.  "It's  rough  fare,  but 
there's  plenty  of  It." 

"I  won't  ask  you  for  no  more,"  replied  Van- 
heimert, paving  the  way  for  his  escape. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will!"  said  Stingaree.  "You're 
going  to  camp  with  us  for  the  next  few  days,  my 
friend!" 

"Why  am  I  ?"  cried  Vanheimert,  aghast  at  the 
quiet  statement,  which  It  never  occurred  to  him 
to  gainsay.  Stingaree  pared  a  pipeful  of  tobacco 
and  rubbed  it  fine  before  troubling  to  reply. 

"Because  the  way  out  of  this  takes  some  find- 
77 


Stingaree 

ing,  and  what's  the  use  of  escaping  an  unpleasant 
death  one  day  if  you  go  and  die  it  the  next? 
That's  one  reason,"  said  Stingaree,  *'but  there's 
another.  The  other  reason  is  that,  now  you're 
here,  you  don't  go  till  I  choose." 

Blue  wreaths  of  smoke  went  up  with  the  words, 
which  might  have  phrased  either  a  humorous  hos- 
pitality or  a  covert  threat.  The  dispassionate  tone 
told  nothing.  But  Vanheimert  felt  the  eye-glas§ 
on  him,  and  his  hearty  appetite  was  at  an  end. 

"That's  real  kind  of  you,"  said  he.  "I  don't 
feel  like  running  no  more  risks  till  I'm  obliged. 
My  nerves  are  shook.  And  if  a  born  back-blocker 
may  make  so  bold,  it's  a  fair  old  treat  to  see  a 
new  chum  camping  out  for  the  fun  of  it!" 

"Who  told  you  I  was  a  new  chum  ?"  asked  Sting- 
aree, sharply.  "Ah!  I  remember,"  he  added, 
nodding;  "you  heard  of  me  lower  down  the  road." 

Vanheimert  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"I'd  have  known  it  without  that,"  said  he. 
"What  real  bushmen  would  boil  their  billy  on  a 
spirit-lamp  when  there's  wood  and  to  spare  for 
a  camp-fire  on  all  sides  of  'em?" 

Now,  Vanheimert  clearly  perceived  the  superi- 
ority of  smokeless  spirit-lamp  to  tell-tale  fire  for 
those  in  hiding;  so  he  chuckled  consumedly  over 
this  thrust,  which  was  taken  in  such  excellent  part 

78 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

by  Stingaree  as  to  prove  him  a  victim  to  the  de- 
sired illusion.  It  was  the  cleverest  touch  that 
Vanheimert  had  yet  achieved.  And  he  had  the 
wit  neither  to  blunt  his  point  by  rubbing  it  in  nor 
to  recall  attention  to  it  by  subtle  protestation  of 
his  pretended  persuasion.  But  once  or  twice  be- 
fore sundown  he  permitted  himself  to  ask  natural 
questions  concerning  the  old  country,  and  to  in- 
dulge in  those  genial  gibes  which  the  Englishman 
in  the  bush  learns  to  expect  from  the  indigenous 
buffoon. 

In  the  night  Vanheimert  was  less  easy.  He  had 
to  sleep  in  Howie's  tent,  but  it  was  some  hours 
before  he  slept  at  all,  for  Howie  would  remain 
outside,  and  Vanheimert  longed  to  hear  him  snore. 
At  last  the  rabbiter  fell  into  a  doze,  and  when  he 
awoke  the  auspicious  music  filled  the  tent.  He 
listened  on  one  elbow,  peering  till  the  darkness 
turned  less  dense;  and  there  lay  Howie  across  the 
opening  of  the  tent.  Vanheimert  reached  for  his 
thin  elastic-sided  bushman's  boots,  and  his  hands 
trembled  as  he  drew  them  on.  He  could  now  see 
the  form  of  Howie  plainly  enough  as  it  lay  half 
in  the  starlight  and  half  in  the  darkness  of  the  tent. 
He  stepped  over  it  without  a  mistake,  and  the  ig- 
noble strains  droned  on  behind  him. 

The  stars  seemed  unnaturally  bright  and  busy 
79 


Stingaree 

as  Vanheimert  stole  into  their  tremulous  light.  At 
first  he  could  distinguish  nothing  earthly;  then  the 
tents  came  sharply  into  focus,  and  after  them  the 
ring  of  impenetrable  trees.  The  trees  whispered 
a  chorus,  myriads  strong,  in  a  chromatic  scale  that 
sang  but  faintly  of  the  open  country.  There  were 
palpable  miles  of  wilderness,  and  none  other  lodge 
but  this,  yet  the  psychological  necessity  for  escape 
was  stronger  in  Vanheimert  than  the  bodily  re- 
luctance to  leave  the  insecure  security  of  the  bush- 
rangers' encampment.  He  was  their  prisoner, 
whatever  they  might  say,  and  the  sense  of  cap- 
tivity was  intolerable;  besides,  let  them  but  sur- 
prise his  knowledge  of  their  secret,  and  they  would 
shoot  him  like  a  dog.  On  the  other  hand,  beyond 
the  forest  and  along  the  beaten  track  lay  fame  and 
a  fortune  in  direct  reward. 

Before  departure  Vanheimert  wished  to  peep 
into  the  other  tent,  but  its  open  end  was  com- 
pletely covered  in  for  the  night,  and  prudence  for- 
bade him  to  meddle  with  his  hands.  He  had  an 
even  keener  desire  to  steal  one  or  other  of  the 
horses  which  he  had  seen  before  nightfall  tethered 
in  the  scrub;  but  here  again  he  lacked  enterprise, 
fancied  the  saddles  must  be  in  Stingaree's  tent, 
and  shrank  from  committing  himself  to  an  action 
which  nothing,  in  the  event  of  disaster,  could  ex- 

80 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

plain  away.  On  foot  he  need  not  put  himself  in 
the  wrong,  even  with  villains  ready  to  suspect  that 
he  suspected  them. 

And  on  foot  he  went,  indeed  on  tiptoe  till  the 
edge  of  the  trees  was  reached  without  adventure, 
and  he  turned  to  look  his  last  upon  the  two  tents 
shimmering  in  the  starlight.  As  he  turned  again, 
satisfied  that  the  one  was  still  shut  and  that  Howie 
still  lay  across  the  opening  of  the  other,  a  firm 
hand  took  Vanheimert  by  either  shoulder;  other- 
wise he  had  leapt  into  the  air;  for  it  was  Sting- 
aree,  who  had  stepped  from  behind  a  bush  as 
from  another  planet,  so  suddenly  that  Vanheimert 
nearly  gasped  his  dreadful  name. 

"I  couldn't  sleep !  I  couldn't  sleep !"  he  cried 
out  instead,  shrinking  as  from  a  lifted  hand,  though 
he  was  merely  being  shaken  playfully  to  and  fro. 

"No  more  could  I,"  said  Stingaree. 

"So  I  was  going  for  a  stroll.  That  was  all,  I 
swear,  Mr. — Mr. — I  don't  know  your  name  !" 

"Quite  sure?"  said  Stingaree. 

"My  oath!     How  should  I?" 

"You  might  have  heard  it  down  the  road." 

"Not  me!" 

"Yet  you  heard  of  me,  you  know." 

"Not  by  name — my  oath!" 

Stingaree  peered  into  the  great  face  in  which 
8i 


Stingarce 

the  teeth  were  chattering  and  from  which  all  trace 
of  color  had  flown. 

"I  shouldn't  eat  you  for  knowing  who  I  am," 
said  he.  "Honesty  Is  still  a  wise  policy  in  cer- 
tain circumstances;  but  you  know  best." 

"I  know  nothing  about  you,  and  care  less,"  re- 
torted Vanheimert,  sullenly,  though  the  perspira- 
tion was  welling  out  of  him.  "I  come  for  a  stroll 
because  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  I  can't  see  what  all 
this  barney's  about." 

Stingaree  dropped  his  hands. 

"Do  you  want  to  sleep?" 

"My  blessed  oath!" 

"Then  come  to  my  tent,  and  I'll  give  you  a 
nobbier  that  may  make  you." 

The  nobbier  was  poured  out  of  a  gallon  jar, 
under  Vanheimert's  nose,  by  the  light  of  a  candle 
which  he  held  himself.  Yet  he  smelt  It  furtively 
before  trying  It  with  his  lips,  and  denied  himself 
a  gulp  till  he  was  reassured.  But  soon  the  empty 
pannikin  was  held  out  for  more.  And  It  was 
the  starless  hour  before  dawn  when  Vanheimert 
tripped  over  Howie's  legs  and  took  a  contented 
header  into  the  corner  from  which  he  had  made 
his  stealthy  escape. 

The  tent  was  tropical  when  he  awoke,  but  Sting- 
aree was  still  at  his  breakfast  outside  in  the  shade. 

82 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

He  pointed  to  a  bucket  and  a  piece  of  soap  behind 
the  tent,  and  Vanheimert  engaged  in  obedient  ab- 
lutions before  sitting  down  to  his  pannikin,  his 
shce  of  damper,  and  his  portion  of  a  tin  of  sar- 
dines. 

"Sorry  there's  no  meat  for  you,"  said  Stingaree. 
"My  mate's  gone  for  fresh  supplies.  By  the  way, 
did  you  miss  your  boots?" 

The  rabbiter  looked  at  a  pair  of  dilapidated 
worsted  socks  and  at  one  protruding  toe;  he  was 
not  sure  whether  he  had  gone  to  bed  for  the  second 
time  in  these  or  in  his  boots.  Certainly  he  had 
missed  the  latter  on  his  second  awakening,  but  had 
not  deemed  it  expedient  to  make  inquiries.  And 
now  he  merely  observed  that  he  wondered  where 
he  could  have  left  them. 

"On  your  feet,"  said  Stingaree.  "My  mate 
has  made  so  bold  as  to  borrow  them  for  the 
day." 

"He's  welcome  to  them,  I'm  sure,"  said  Van- 
heimert with  a  sickly  smile. 

"I  was  sure  you  would  say  so,"  rejoined  Sting- 
aree. "His  own  are  reduced  to  uppers  and  half 
a  heel  apiece,  but  he  hopes  to  get  them  soled  in 
Ivanhoe  while  he  waits." 

"So  he's  gone  to  Ivanhoe,  has  he?" 

"He's  been  gone  three  hours." 
83 


Stingaree 

"Surely  it's  a  long  trip  ?" 

"Yes;  we  shall  have  to  make  the  most  of 
each  other  till  sundown,"  said  Stingaree,  gazing 
through  his  glass  upon  Vanheimert's  perplexity. 
"If  I  were  you  I  should  take  my  revenge  by 
shaking  anything  of  his  that  I  could  find  for  the 
day." 

And  with  a  cavalier  nod,  to  clinch  the  last  word 
on  the  subject,  the  bushranger  gave  himself  over 
to  his  camp-chair,  his  pipe,  and  his  inexhaustible 
Australasian.  As  for  Vanheimert,  he  eventually 
returned  to  the  tent  in  which  he  had  spent  the 
night;  and  there  he  remained  a  good  many  min- 
utes, though  it  was  now  the  forenoon,  and  the  heat 
under  canvas  past  endurance.  But  when  at  length 
he  emerged,  as  from  a  bath,  Stingaree,  seated  be- 
hind his  Australasian  in  the  lee  of  the  other  tent, 
took  so  little  notice  of  him  that  Vanheimert  crept 
back  to  have  one  more  look  at  the  thing  which  he 
had  found  in  the  old  valise  which  served  Howie 
for  a  pillow.  And  the  thing  was  a  very  workman- 
like revolver,  with  a  heavy  cartridge  in  each  of 
its  six  chambers. 

Vanheimert  handled  it  with  trembling  fingers, 
and  packed  it  afresh  in  the  pocket  where  it  least 
affected  his  personal  contour,  its  angles  softened 
by  a  big  bandanna  handkerchief,  only  to  take  it 

84 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

out  yet  again  with  a  resolution  that  opened  a  fresh 
sluice  in  every  pore.  The  blanket  that  had  been 
lent  to  him,  and  Howie's  blanket,  both  lay  at  his 
feet;  he  threw  one  over  either  arm,  and  with  the 
revolver  thus  effectually  concealed,  but  grasped 
for  action  with  finger  on  trigger,  sallied  forth  at 
last. 

Stingaree  was  still  seated  in  the  narrowing  shade 
of  his  own  tent.  Vanheimert  was  within  five  paces 
of  him  before  he  looked  up  so  very  quickly,  with 
such  a  rapid  adjustment  of  the  terrible  eye-glass, 
that  Vanheimert  stood  stock-still,  and  the  butt  of 
his  hidden  weapon  turned  colder  than  ever  in  his 
melting  hand. 

"Why,  what  have  you  got  there?"  cried  Sting- 
aree. "And  what's  the  matter  with  you,  man?" 
he  added,  as  Vanheimert  stood  shaking  in  his 
socks. 

"Only  his  blankets,  to  camp  on,"  the  fellow  an- 
swered, hoarsely.  "You  advised  me  to  help  my- 
self, you  know." 

"Quite  right;  so  I  did;  but  you're  as  white 
as  the  tent — you  tremble  like  a  leaf.  What's 
wrong?" 

"My  head,"  replied  Vanheimert,  in  a  whine. 
"It's  going  round  and  round,  either  from  what  I 
had  in  the  night,  or  lying  too  long  in  the  hot  tent, 

85 


Stingaree 

or  one  on  top  of  the  other.  I  thought  I'd  camp 
for  a  bit  In  the  shade." 

"I  should,"  said  Stingaree,  and  buried  himself 
in  his  paper  with  undisguised  contempt. 

Vanheimert  came  a  step  nearer.  Stingaree  did 
not  look  up  again.  The  revolver  was  levelled 
under  one  trailing  blanket.  But  the  trigger  was 
never  pulled.  Vanheimert  feared  to  miss  even  at 
arm's  length,  so  palsied  was  his  hand,  so  dim  his 
eye;  and  when  he  would  have  played  the  man  and 
called  desperately  on  the  other  to  surrender,  the 
very  tongue  clove  in  his  head. 

He  slunk  over  to  the  shady  margin  of  surround- 
ing scrub  and  lay  aloof  all  the  morning,  now  fin- 
gering the  weapon  in  his  pocket,  now  watching 
the  man  who  never  once  looked  his  way.  He  was 
a  bushranger  and  an  outlaw;  he  deserved  to  die 
or  to  be  taken;  and  Vanheimert's  only  regret  was 
that  he  had  neither  taken  nor  shot  him  at  their  last 
interview.  The  bloodless  alternative  was  to  be 
borne  In  mind,  yet  In  his  heart  he  well  knew  that 
the  bullet  was  his  one  chance  with  Stingaree.  And 
even  with  the  bullet  he  was  horribly  uncertain  and 
afraid.  But  of  hesitation  on  any  higher  ground, 
of  remorse  or  of  reluctance,  or  the  desire  to  give 
fair  play,  he  had  none  at  all.  The  man  whom  he 
had  stupidly  spared  so  far  was  a  notorious  crim- 

86 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

inal  with  a  high  price  upon  his  head.  It  weighed 
not  a  grain  with  Vanheimert  that  the  criminal  hap- 
pened to  have  saved  his  hfe. 

"Come  and  eat,"  shouted  Stingaree  at  last;  and 
Vanheimert  trailed  the  blankets  over  his  left  arm, 
his  right  thrust  idly  into  his  pocket,  which  bulged 
with  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief.  "Sorry  it's 
sardines  again,"  the  bushranger  went  on,  "but  we 
shall  make  up  with  a  square  feed  to-night  if  my 
mate  gets  back  by  dark;  if  he  doesn't,  we  may  have 
to  tighten  our  belts  till  morning.  Fortunately, 
there's  plenty  to  drink.  Have  some  whiskey  In 
your  tea?" 

Vanheimert  nodded,  and  v/ith  an  eye  on  the 
bushranger,  who  was  once  more  stooping  over  his 
beloved  Australasian,  helped  himself  enormously 
from  the  gallon  jar. 

"And  now  for  a  siesta,"  yawned  Stingaree,  ris- 
ing and  stretching  himself  after  the  meal. 

"Hear,  hear!"  croaked  Vanheimert,  his  great 
face  flushed,  his  bloodshot  eyes  on  fire. 

"I  shall  camp  on  the  shady  side  of  my  tent." 

"And  I'll  do  ditto  at  the  other." 

"So  long,  then." 

"So  long." 

"Sweet  repose  to  you  !" 

"Same  to  you,"  rasped  Vanheimert,  and 
87 


Stingaree 

went  off  cursing  and  chuckling  in  his  heart  by 
turns. 

It  was  a  sweltering  afternoon  of  little  air,  and 
that  little  as  hot  and  dry  in  the  nostrils  as  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  laundry  on  ironing  day.  Beyond 
and  above  the  trees  a  fiery  blast  blew  from  the 
north;  but  it  was  seldom  a  wandering  puff  stooped 
to  flutter  the  edges  of  the  tents  in  the  little  hollow 
among  the  trees.  And  into  this  empty  basin  poured 
a  vertical  sun,  as  if  through  some  giant  lens  which 
had  burnt  a  hole  in  the  heart  of  the  scrub.  Lulled 
by  the  faint  perpetual  murmur  of  leaf  and  branch, 
without  a  sound  from  bird  or  beast  to  break  its 
soothing  monotone,  the  two  men  lay  down  within 
a  few  yards,  though  out  of  sight,  of  each  other. 
And  for  a  time  all  was  very  still. 

Then  Vanheimert  rose  slowly,  without  a  sound, 
and  came  on  tiptoe  to  the  other  tent,  his  right 
hand  in  the  pocket  where  the  bandanna  handker- 
chief had  been  but  was  no  longer.  He  came  close 
up  to  the  sunny  side  of  the  tent  and  listened  vainly 
for  a  sound.  But  Stingaree  lay  like  a  log  in  the 
shade  on  the  far  side,  his  face  to  the  canvas  and  his 
straw  sombrero  tilted  over  it.  And  so  Vanheimert 
found  him,  breathing  with  the  placid  regularity  of 
a  sleeping  child. 

Vanheimert  looked  about  him ;  only  the  ring  of 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

impenetrable  trees  and  the  deep  blue  eye  of 
Heaven  would  see  what  really  happened.  But  as 
to  what  exactly  was  to  happen  Vanheimert  himself 
was  not  clear  as  he  drew  the  revolver  ready 
cocked;  even  he  shrank  from  shooting  a  sleeping 
man;  what  he  desired  and  yet  feared  was  a  sudden 
start,  a  semblance  of  resistance,  a  swift,  justifiable 
shot.  And  as  his  mind's  eye  measured  the  dead 
man  at  his  feet,  the  live  man  turned  slowly  over 
on  his  back. 

It  was  too  much  for  Vanheimert's  nerves.  The 
revolver  went  off  in  his  hands.  But  it  was  only 
a  cap  that  snapped,  and  another,  and  another,  as 
he  stepped  back  firing  desperately.  Stingaree  sat 
upright,  looking  his  treacherous  enemy  in  the  eye, 
through  the  glass  in  which,  it  seemed,  he  slept. 
And  when  the  sixth  cap  snapped  as  harmlessly  as 
the  other  five,  Vanheimert  caught  the  revolver  by 
its  barrel  to  throw  or  to  strike.  But  the  raised 
arm  was  seized  from  behind  by  Howie,  who  had 
crept  from  the  scrub  at  the  snapping  of  the  first 
cap ;  at  the  same  moment  Stingaree  sprang  upon 
him;  and  in  less  than  a  minute  Vanheimert  lay 
powerless,  grinding  his  teeth,  foaming  and  bleed- 
ing at  the  mouth,  and  filling  the  air  with  nameless 
imprecations. 

The  bushrangers  let  him  curse;  not  a  word  did 
89 


Stingaree 

they  bandy  with  him  or  with  each  other.  Their 
action  was  silent,  swift,  concerted,  prearranged. 
They  lashed  their  prisoner's  wrists  together,  lashed 
his  elbows  to  his  ribs,  hobbled  his  ankles,  and  teth- 
ered him  to  a  tree  by  the  longest  and  the  stoutest  of 
their  many  ropes.  The  tree  was  the  one  under 
M'hich  Vanheimert  had  found  himself  the  day  be- 
fore; in  the  afternoon  it  was  exposed  to  the  full 
fury  of  the  sun;  and  in  the  sun  they  left  him, 
quieter  already,  but  not  so  quiet  as  they.  It  was 
near  sundown  when  they  returned  to  look  upon 
a  broken  man,  crouching  in  his  toils  like  a  beaten 
beast,  with  undying  malice  in  his  swollen  eyes. 
Stingaree  sat  at  his  prisoner's  feet,  offered  him 
tobacco  without  a  sneer,  and  lit  up  his  own  when 
the  offer  was  declined  with  a  curse. 

"When  we  came  upon  you  yesterday  morning 
in  the  storm,  one  of  us  was  for  leaving  you  to  die 
in  your  tracks,"  began  Stingaree.  He  was  imme- 
diately interrupted  by  his  mate. 

"That  was  me!"  cried  Howie,  with  a  savage 
satisfaction. 

"It  doesn't  matter  which  of  us  it  was,"  con- 
tinued Stingaree;  "the  other  talked  him  over;  we 
put  you  on  one  of  our  horses,  and  we  brought  you 
more  dead  than  alive  to  the  place  which  no  other 
man  has  seen  since  we  took  a  fancy  to  it.     We 

90 


«To  the  Vile  Dust" 

saved  your  miserable  life,  I  won't  say  at  the  rislc 
of  our  own,  but  at  risk  enough  even  if  you  had 
not  recognized  us.  We  were  going  to  see  you 
through,  whether  you  knew  us  or  not;  before  this 
we  should  have  set  you  on  the  road  from  which 
you  had  strayed.  I  thought  you  must  know  us  by 
sight,  but  when  you  denied  it  I  saw  no  reason  to 
disbelieve  you.  It  only  dawned  on  me  by  degrees 
that  you  were  lying,  though  Howie  here  was  sure 
of  it. 

"I  still  couldn't  make  out  your  game;  if  it  was 
funk  I  could  have  understood  it;  so  I  tried  to  get 
you  to  own  up  in  the  night.  I  let  you  see  that  we 
didn't  mind  whether  you  knew  us  or  not,  and  yet 
you  persisted  in  your  lie.  So  then  I  smelt  some- 
thing deeper.  But  we  had  gone  out  of  our  way 
to  save  your  life.  It  never  struck  me  that  you 
might  go  out  of  your  way  to  take  ours!" 

Stingaree  paused,  smoking  his  pipe. 

"But  it  did  me!"  cried  Howie. 

*'I  never  meant  taking  your  lives,"  muttered 
Vanheimert.  "I  meant  taking  you — as  you  de- 
served." 

"We  scarcely  deserved  it  of  you;  but  that  is  a 
matter  of  opinion.  As  for  taking  us  alive,  no 
doubt  you  would  have  preferred  to  do  so  if  it  had 
seemed  equally  safe  and  easy;  you  had  not  the 

91 


Stingaree 

pluck  to  run  a  single  risk.  You  were  given  every 
chance.  I  sent  Howie  into  the  scrub,  took  the 
powder  out  of  six  cartridges,  and  put  what  any- 
body would  have  taken  for  a  loaded  revolver  all 
but  into  your  hands.  I  sat  at  your  mercy,  quite 
looking  forward  to  the  sensation  of  being  stuck 
up  for  a  change.  If  you  had  stuck  me  up  like  a 
man,"  said  Stingaree,  reflectively  examining  his 
pipe,  "you  might  have  lived  to  tell  the  tale." 

There  was  an  interval  of  the  faint,  persistent 
rustling  of  branch  and  leaf,  varied  by  the  screech 
of  a  distant  cockatoo  and  the  nearer  cry  of  a  crow, 
as  the  dusk  deepened  into  night  as  expeditiously 
as  on  the  stage.  Vanheimert  was  not  awed  by  the 
quiet  voice  to  which  he  had  been  listening.  It 
lacked  the  note  of  violence  which  he  understood; 
it  even  lulled  him  into  a  belief  that  he  would  still 
live  to  tell  the  tale.  But  in  the  dying  light  he 
looked  up,  and  in  the  fierce  unrelenting  face,  made 
the  more  sinister  by  Its  foppish  furniture,  he  read 
his  doom. 

"You  tried  to  shoot  me  In  my  sleep,"  said  Sting- 
aree, speaking  slowly,  with  Intense  articulation. 
"That's  your  gratitude!  You  will  live  just  long 
enough  to  wish  that  you  had  shot  yourself  In- 
stead!" 

Stingaree  rose. 

92 


«To  the  Vile  Dust" 

"You  may  as  well  shoot  me  now!"  cried  Van- 
heimert,  with  a  husky  effort. 

"Shoot  you  ?  I'm  not  going  to  shoot  you  at  all ; 
shooting's  too  good  for  scum  like  you.  But  you 
are  to  die — make  no  mistake  about  that.  And 
soon;  but  not  to-night.  That  would  not  be  fair 
on  you,  for  reasons  which  I  leave  to  your  imagina- 
tion. You  will  lie  where  you  are  to-night;  and 
you  will  be  watched  and  fed  like  your  superiors 
in  the  condemned  cell.  The  only  difference  is  that 
I  can't  tell  you  when  it  will  be.  It  might  be  to- 
morrow— I  don't  think  it  will — but  you  may  num- 
ber your  days  on  the  fingers  of  both  hands." 

So  saying,  Stingaree  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
was  lost  to  sight  in  the  shades  of  evening  before 
he  reached  his  tent.  But  Howie  remained  on  duty 
with  the  condemned  man. 

As  such  Vanheimert  was  treated  from  the  first 
hour  of  his  captivity.  Not  a  rough  word  was  said 
to  him;  and  his  own  unbridled  outbursts  w^ere  re- 
ceived with  as  much  indifference  as  the  abject 
prayers  and  supplications  which  were  their  regular 
reaction.  The  ebbing  life  was  ordered  on  that 
principle  of  high  humanity  which  might  be  the  last 
refinement  of  calculated  cruelty.  The  prisoner 
was  so  tethered  to  such  a  tree  that  it  was  no  longer 
necessary  for  him  to  spend  a  moment  In  the  red  eye 

93 


Stingaree 


of  the  sun.  He  could  follow  a  sufficient  shade 
from  dawn  to  dusk.  His  boots  were  restored  to 
him;  a  blanket  was  permitted  him  day  and  night; 
but  night  and  day  he  was  sedulously  watched,  and 
neither  knife  nor  fork  was  provided  with  his  meals. 
His  fare  was  relatively  not  inferior  to  that  of  the 
legally  condemned,  whose  notorious  privileges  and 
restrictions  served  the  bushrangers  for  a  model. 

And  Vanheimert  clung  to  the  hope  of  a  reprieve 
with  all  the  sanguine  tenacity  of  his  ill-starred 
class,  though  it  did  seem  with  more  encourage- 
ment on  the  whole.  For  the  days  went  on,  and 
each  of  many  mornings  brought  its  own  respite 
till  the  next.  The  welcome  announcement  was  in- 
variably made  by  Howie  after  a  colloquy  with  his 
chief,  which  Vanheimert  watched  with  breathless 
interest  for  a  day  or  two,  but  thereafter  with  In- 
creasing coolness.  They  were  trying  to  frighten 
him ;  they  did  not  mean  it,  any  more  than  Stingaree 
had  meant  to  shoot  the  new  chum  who  had  the 
■  temerity  to  put  a  pistol  to  his  head  after  the  affair 
'  of  the  Glenranald  bank.  The  case  of  lucky  Fer- 
gus, justly  celebrated  throughout  the  colony,  was 
a  great  comfort  to  Vanheimert's  mind;  he  could 
see  but  little  difference  between  the  tv/o;  but  if 
his  treachery  was  the  greater,  so  also  was  the  or- 
deal to  which  he  was  being  subjected.     For  in  the 

94 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

light  of  a  mere  ordeal  he  soon  regarded  what  he 
was  invited  to  consider  as  his  last  days  on  earth, 
and  in  the  conviction  that  they  were  not,  began 
suddenly  to  bear  them  like  a  man.  This  change 
of  front  produced  its  fellow  in  Stingaree,  who 
apologized  to  Vanheimert  for  the  delay,  which  he 
vowed  he  could  not  help.  Vanheimert  was  a  little 
shaken  by  his  manner,  though  he  smiled  behind  the 
bushranger's  back.  And  he  could  scarcely  believe 
his  ears  when,  the  veq/-  next  morning,  Howie  told 
him  that  his  hour  was  come. 

"Rot!"  said  Vanheimert,  with  a  confident  ex- 
pletive. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Howie.  "But  if  you  don't 
believe  me,  I'm  sorrier  for  you  than  I  was." 

He  slouched  away,  but  Vanheimert  had  no 
stomach  for  the  tea  and  damper  which  had  been 
left  behind.  It  was  unusual  for  him  to  be  suf- 
fered to  take  a  meal  unwatched;  something  un- 
usual was  in  the  air.  Stingaree  emerged  from  the 
scrub  leading  the  two  horses.  Vanheimert  began 
to  figure  the  fate  that  might  be  in  store  for  him. 
And  the  horses,  saddled  and  bridled  before  his 
eyes,  were  led  over  to  where  he  sat. 

"Are  you  going  to  shoot  me  before  your  go," 
he  cried,  "or  are  you  going  to  leave  me  to  die 
alone?" 

95 


Stingaree 

"Neither,  here,"  said  Stingaree.  "We're  too 
fond  of  the  camp." 

It  was  his  first  brutal  speech,  but  the  brutality 
was  too  subtle  for  Vanheimert.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  that  something  dreadful  might  happen 
to  him  after  all.  The  pinions  were  removed  from 
his  arms  and  legs,  the  long  rope  detached  from  the 
tree  and  made  fast  to  one  of  Stingaree's  stirrups 
instead.  And  by  it  Vanheimert  was  led  a  good 
mile  through  the  scrub,  with  Howie  at  his  heels. 

A  red  sun  had  risen  on  the  camp,  but  in  the 
scrub  it  ceased  to  shine,  and  the  first  open  space 
was  as  sunless  as  the  dense  bush.  Spires  of  sand 
kept  whirling  from  earth  to  sky,  joining  other 
spinning  spires,  forming  a  monster  balloon  of  yel- 
low sand,  a  balloon  that  swelled  until  it  burst, 
obscuring  first  the  firmament  and  then  the  earth. 
But  the  mind  of  Vanheimert  was  so  busy  with  the 
fate  he  feared  that  he  did  not  realize  he  was  in 
another  dust-storm  until  Stingaree,  at  the  end  of 
the  rope,  was  swallowed  like  a  tug  in  a  fog.  And 
even  then  Vanheimert's  peculiar  terror  of  a  dust- 
storm  did  not  link  itself  to  the  fear  of  sudden  death 
which  had  at  last  been  put  into  him.  But  the 
moment  of  mental  enlightenment  was  at  hand. 

The  rope  trailed  on  the  ground  as  Stingaree 
loomed  large  and  yellow  through  the  storm.     He 

96 


"To  the  Vile  Dust" 

had  dropped  his  end.  Vanheimert  glanced  over  his 
shoulder,  and  Howie  loomed  large  and  yellow  be- 
hind him. 

"You  will  now  perceive  the  reason  for  so  many 
days'  delay,"  said  Stingaree.  "I  have  been  wait- 
ing for  such  a  dust-storm  as  the  one  from  which 
we  saved  you,  to  be  rewarded  as  you  endeavored 
to  reward  me.  You  might,  prehaps,  have  pre- 
ferred me  to  make  shorter  work  of  you,  but  on 
consideration  you  will  see  that  this  is  not  only  just 
but  generous.  The  chances  are  perhaps  against 
you,  and  somewhat  in  favor  of  a  more  unpleasant 
death;  but  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  storm  may 
pass  before  it  finishes  you,  and  that  you  may  then 
hit  the  fence  before  you  die  of  thirst,  and  at  the 
worst  we  leave  you  no  worse  off  than  we  found  you. 
And  that,  I  hold,  is  more  than  you  had  any  right 
to  expect.     So  long!" 

The  thickening  storm  had  swallowed  man  and 
horse  once  more.  Vanheimert  looked  round.  The 
second  man  and  the  second  horse  had  also  van- 
ished. And  his  own  tracks  were  being  obliterated 
as  fast  as  footmarks  in  blinding  snow.     .     .     , 


97 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

THE  HON.  GUY  KENTISH  was  trotting 
the  globe — an  exercise  foreign  to  his  habit 
— when  he  went  on  to  Austraha  for  a  reason  racy 
of  his  blood.  He  wished  to  witness  a  certain  game 
of  cricket  between  the  full  strength  of  Australia 
and  an  English  team  which  included  one  or  two 
young  men  of  his  acquaintance.  It  was  no  part  of 
his  original  scheme  to  see  anything  of  the  country; 
one  of  the  Australian  cricketers  put  that  idea  Into 
his  head;  and  it  was  under  inward  protest  that  Mr. 
Kentish  found  himself  smoking  his  chronic  cigar  on 
the  Glenranald  and  Clear  Corner  coach  one  scorch- 
ing morning  in  the  month  of  February.  He 
thought  he  had  never  seen  such  a  howling  desert 
in  his  life;  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  in  his  heart 
he  applied  the  same  epithet  to  his  two  fellow- 
passengers.  The  one  outside  was  chatting  horri- 
bly with  the  driver;  the  other  had  tried  to  chafF 
the  Hon.  Guy,  and  had  repaired  in  some  disorder 
to  the  company  of  the  mail-bags  inside.  Kentish 
wondered  whether  these  were  the  types  he  might 
expect  to  encounter  upon  the  station  to  which  he 

98 


c.-w,iSv?,-M-: 


Mr.    Keiuisli   watclied  tlie  little  operation  of  "sticking  up"   witlujut  a  word. 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

had  reluctantly  accepted  an  officious  Introduction. 
He  wished  himself  out  of  the  absurd  little  two- 
horse  coach,  out  of  an  expedition  whose  absurdity 
was  on  a  larger  scale,  and  back  again  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  two  or  three  streets  where  he  lived  his 
normal  life.  The  fare  at  wayside  Inns  made  the 
thought  of  his  club  a  positive  pain ;  and  these  pangs 
were  at  their  sharpest  when  Stingaree  cantered  out 
of  the  scrub  on  his  lily  mare,  a  blessed  bolt  from 
the  blue. 

Mr.  Kentish  watched  the  little  operation  of 
"sticking  up"  without  a  word,  but  with  revived 
interest  in  life.  He  noted  the  pusillanimous  pallor 
of  the  driver  and  his  friend,  and  felt  personally 
indebted  to  the  desperado  who  had  put  a  stop  to 
their  unpleasant  conversation.  The  Inside  passen- 
ger made  a  yet  more  obsequious  surrender.  Not 
that  the  trio  were  set  any  better  example  by  their 
noble  ally,  who  began  by  smiling  at  the  whole 
affair,  and  was  content  to  the  last  in  taking  an 
observant  Interest  in  the  bushranger's  methods. 
These  were  simple  and  in  a  sense  humane;  there 
was  no  personal  robbery  at  all.  The  mail-bags 
were  sufficient  for  Stingaree,  who  on  this  occasion 
worked  alone,  but  led  a  pack-horse,  to  which  the 
driver  and  the  inside  passenger  were  compelled  to 
strap  the  long  canvas  bags,  under  his  eye-glass  and 

99 


Stingaree 

his  long  revolver.  Few  words  were  spoken  from 
first  to  last;  the  Hon.  Guy  never  put  in  his  at  all; 
but  he  watched  the  outlaw  like  a  lynx,  without 
betraying  an  undue  attention,  and  when  all  was 
over  he  gave  a  sigh. 

"So  that's  Stingaree !"  he  said,  more  to  himself 
than  to  his  comrades  in  humihation;  but  the  bush- 
ranger had  cantered  back  into  the  scrub,  and  his 
name  opened  the  flood-gates  of  a  profanity  which 
made  Kentish  wince,  for  all  his  knowledge  of  the 
world. 

"Do  you  never  swear  at  him  till  he  has  gone?" 
he  asked  when  he  had  a  chance.  The  driver  leant 
across  the  legs  of  his  friend. 

"Not  unless  we  want  a  bull&t  through  our 
skulls,"  he  answered  in  boorish  derision;  and  the 
man  between  them  laughed  harshly. 

"I  thought  he  had  never  been  known  to  shoot?" 

"That's  just  it,  mister.  We  don't  want  him  to 
begin  on  us." 

"Why  didn't  you  give  him  a  bit  of  your  mind?" 
the  man  in  the  middle  inquired  of  Kentish.  "I 
never  heard  you  open  your  gills!" 

"And  we  expected  to  see  some  pluck  from  the 
old  country,"  added  the  driver,  wreaking  ven- 
geance with  his  lash. 

Mr.  Kentish  produced  his  cigar-case  with  an 

lOO 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay         .  „, 

insensitive  smile,  and,  after  a  moments  delibera- 
tion, handed  it  for  the  first  time  to  his  uncouth 
companions.  "Do  you  want  those  mail-bags 
back?"  he  asked,  quite  casually,  when  the  three 
cigars  were  in  blast. 

"Want  them  ?  Of  course  I  want  them ;  but  want 
must  be  my  boss,"  said  the  driver,  gloomily. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Kentish.  "When  does 
the  next  coach  pass  this  way?" 

"Midnight,  and  I  drive  it.  I  turn  back  when  I 
get  to  Clear  Corner,  you  see." 

"Then  look  out  for  me  about  this  spot.  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  to  put  me  down." 

"Put  you  down?" 

"If  you  don't  mind  pulling  up.  I'm  not  going 
on  at  present;  but  I'll  go  back  with  you  to  Glen- 
ranald  Instead,  If  you'll  keep  a  lookout  for  me 
to-night." 

Instinctively  the  driver  put  his  foot  upon  the 
brake,  for  the  request  had  been  made  with  that 
quiet  authority  which  this  silent  passenger  had 
suddenly  assumed;  and  yet  It  seemed  to  them  such 
a  mad  demand  that  his  companions  looked  at  Kent- 
ish as  they  had  not  looked  before.  His  face  bore 
a  close  Inspection;  it  was  one  of  those  which  burn 
red,  and  in  the  redness  twinkled  hazel  eyes  that 
toned  agreeably  with  a  fair  beard  and  fairer  mus- 

lOI 


Stingaree 

tache.  The  former  he  had  grown  upon  his  travels; 
but  the  trail  of  the  West-end  tailor,  whose  shoot- 
ing-jacket is  as  distinctive  as  his  frock-coat,  was 
upon  Guy  Kentish  from  head  to  heel.  As  they 
watched  him  he  took  an  open  envelope  from  his 
pocket,  scribbled  a  few  words  on  a  card,  put  that 
in,  and  stuck  down  the  flap. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "is  my  letter  of  introduction 
to  the  good  people  at  the  Mazeppa  Station  higher 
up.  If  I  don't  turn  up  to-night,  see  that  they  get 
it,  even  if  it  costs  you  a  bit  of  this?" 

And,  putting  a  sovereign  in  a  startled  palm,  he 
jumped  to  the  ground. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do,  sir?"  cried  the 
driver,  in  alarm. 

"Recover  your  mail-bags  if  I  can." 

"What?    After  you've  just  been  stuck  up " 

"Exactly.     I  hope  to  stick  up  Stingaree!" 
"Then  you  were  armed  all  the  time?" 
Mr.  Kentish  smiled  as  he  shook  his  head. 
"That's  my  affair,  I  imagine;  but  even  so  I  am 
riot  fool  enough  to  tackle  such  a  fellow  with  his 
own  weapons.     You  leave  it  to  me,  and  don't  be 
anxious.     But  I  must  be  off  if  I'm  to  stalk  him 
before  he  goes  through  the  letters.     No,  I  know 
what  I'm  doing,  and  I  shall  do  better  alone.     Till 
to-night,  then!" 

102 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

And  he  was  in  the  scrub  ere  they  decided  to  take 
him  at  his  madcap  word,  and  let  his  blood 
be  on  the  chuckle-head  of  the  new-chummiest  new 
chum  that  ever  came  out  after  the  rain!  Was 
it  pluck  or  all  pretence  ?  It  was  rather  plucky  even 
to  pretend  in  such  proximity  to  the  terrible  Sting- 
aree;  on  the  whole,  the  coaching  trio  were  disposed 
to  concede  a  certain  amount  of  unequivocal  cour- 
age; and  the  driver,  with  Kentish's  sovereign  in 
his  pocket,  went  so  far  as  to  declare  that  duty 
alone  nailed  him  to  the  box. 

Meantime  the  Hon.  Guy  had  skirted  the  road 
until  he  came  to  double  horse-tracks  striking  back 
into  the  bush;  these  he  followed  with  the  wary 
stealth  of  one  who  had  spent  his  autumns,  at  least, 
in  the  right  place.  They  led  him  through  belts  of 
scrub  in  which  he  trod  like  a  cat,  without  disturb- 
ing an  avoidable  bi:anch,  and  over  treeless  spaces 
that  he  crossed  at  a  run,  bent  double ;  but  always, 
as  he  followed  the  trail,  his  shadow  fell  at  one 
consistent  angle,  showing  how  the  bushranger  rode 
through  his  natural  clement  as  the  crow  might  have 
flown  overhead. 

At  last  Kentish  found  himself  In  a  sandy  gully 
bristling  with  pines,  through  which  the  sunlight 
dripped  like  melted  gold;  and  In  the  fine  warp  and 
woof  of  high  light  and  sharp  shadow  the  bush- 

103 


Stingaree 

ranger's  horses  stood  lashing  at  the  flies  with  their 
long  tails.  The  bushranger  himself  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  But  at  last  Kentish  descried  a  white- 
and-brown  litter  on  either  side  of  the  thickest  trunk 
in  sight,  from  whose  further  side  floated  inter- 
mittent puffs  of  thin  blue  smoke.  Kentish  looked 
and  looked  again  before  advancing.  But  the  tall 
pine  threw  such  a  shadow  as  should  easily  swallow 
his  own.  And  in  another  minute  he  was  peeping 
round  the  bole. 

The  litter  on  either  side  was,  of  course,  the 
shower  of  miscellaneous  postal  matter  from  the 
mail-bags;  and  in  its  midst  sat  Stingaree  against 
the  tree,  enjoying  his  pipe  and  a  copy  of  Punch,  of 
which  the  wrapper  lay  upon  his  knees.  Kentish 
peered  for  torn  envelopes  and  gaping  packets; 
there  were  no  more.  The  bushranger  had  evi- 
dently started  with  Punchy  and  was  still  curiously 
absorbed  in  its  contents.  The  notorious  eye-glass 
dangled  against  that  kindred  vanity,  the  spotless 
white  jacket  which  he  affected  in  summer-time;  the 
brown,  attentive  face,  even  as  Kentish  saw  it  in 
less  than  profile,  was  thus  purged  of  the  sinister 
aspect  which  such  an  appendage  can  impart  to  the 
most  innocent;  and  a  somewhat  passive  amusement 
was  its  unmistakable  note.  Nevertheless,  the  long 
revolver  which  had  once  more  done  its  nefarious 

104 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

work  still  lay  ready  to  his  hand;  indeed,  the  Hon. 
Guy  could  have  stooped  and  whipped  it  up,  had 
he  been  so  minded. 

He  was  absorbed,  hov/ever,  in  the  absorption  of 
Stingaree;  and  as  he  peered  audaciously  over  the 
other's  shoulder  he  put  himself  in  the  outlaw's 
place.  An  old  friend  would  have  lurked  in  every 
cut,  a  friend  whom  it  might  well  be  a  painful  pleas- 
ure to  meet  again.  There  were  the  oval  face  and 
the  short  upper  lip  of  one  imperishable  type;  on 
the  next  page  one  of  Punch's  Fancy  Portraits,  with 
lines  underneath  which  set  Stingaree  Incongru- 
ously humming  a  stave  from  H.M.S.  Pinafore. 
Mr.  Kentish  smiled  without  surprise.  The  com- 
mon folk  in  the  omnibus  opposite  were  the  common 
folk  of  an  inveterate  master;  there  was  matter  for 
a  homesick  sigh  in  his  hint  of  streaming  streets — 
and  Kentish  thought  he  heard  one  as  he  held  his 
breath.  The  page  after  that  detained  the  reader 
some  minutes.  The  Illustrations  proclaimed  It  an 
article  on  the  new  Savoy  opera,  and  Stingaree  con- 
firmed the  impression  by  humming  more  Pinafore 
when  he  came  to  the  end.  Kentish  left  him  at  It, 
and,  creeping  away  as  silently  as  he  had  come, 
described  a  circle  and  came  noisily  on  the  bush- 
ranger from  the  front.  The  result  was  that  Sting- 
aree was  not  startled  into  firing,  but  stopped  the 

105 


Stingaree 

intruder  at  due  distance  with  his  revolver  levelled 
across  the  open  copy  of  Punch. 

"I  heard  you  singing  Pinafore,"  cried  Kentish, 
cheerily.     "And  I  find  you  reading  Punch!" 

"How  dare  you  find  me?"  demanded  the  bush- 
ranger, black  with  passion. 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind.  I  am  perfectly 
innocuous — look !" 

And,  divesting  himself  of  his  shooting-coat,  he 
tossed  It  across  for  the  other's  inspection;  he  wore 
neither  waistcoat  nor  hip-pocket,  and  his  innocence 
of  arms  was  manifest  when  he  had  turned  round 
slowly  where  he  stood. 

"Now  may  I  not  come  a  Httle  nearer?"  asked 
the  Hon.  Guy. 

"No;  keep  your  distance,  and  tell  me  why  you 
have  come  so  far.  The  truth,  mind,  or  you'll  be 
shot!" 

"Very  well,"  said  Kentish.  "They  were  dread- 
ful people  on  the  coach " 

"Are  they  waiting  for  you?"  thundered 
Stingaree. 

"No;  they've  gone  on;  and  they  think  me  mad." 

"So  you  are." 

"We  shall  see;  meanwhile  I  prefer  your  com- 
pany to  theirs,  and  mean  to  enjoy  it  up  to  the 
moment  of  my  murder." 

io6 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

For  an  instant  Stingaree  seemed  on  the  brink  of 
a  smile;  then  his  dark  face  hardened,  and  he  tapped 
the  long  barrel  in  rest  between  his  knees. 

"You  may  call  it  murder  if  you  like,"  said  he. 
"That  will  not  prevent  me  from  shooting  you  dead 
unless  you  speak  the  truth.  You  have  come  for 
something;  what  is  it?" 

"I've  told  you  already.  I  was  bored  and  dis- 
gusted.    That  is  the  truth." 

"But  not  the  whole  truth,"  cried  Stingaree. 
"You  had  some  other  reason." 

Kentish  looked  down  without  speaking.  He 
heard  the  revolver  cocked. 

"Come,  let  us  have  it,  or  I'll  shoot  you  like  the 
spy  I  believe  you  are !" 

"You  may  shoot  me  for  telling  you,"  said  Ken- 
tish, with  a  quiet  laugh  and  shrug. 

"No,  I  shall  not,  unless  it  turns  out  that  you're 
ground-bait  for  the  police." 

"That  I  am  not,"  said  Kentish,  growing  serious 
in  his  turn.  "But,  since  you  insist,  I  have  come  to 
persuade  you  to  give  up  every  one  of  these  letters 
which  you  have  no  earthly  right  to  touch." 

Their  eyes  met.  Stingaree's  were  the  wider 
open,  and  in  an  instant  the  less  stern.  He  dropped 
his  revolver,  with  a  laugh,  into  its  old  place  at  his 
side. 

107 


Stingaree 

"Mad  or  sane,"  said  he,  "I  shall  be  under  the 
unpleasant  necessity  of  leaving  you  rather  securely 
tied  to  one  of  these  trees." 

"I  don't  believe  you  will,"  returned  Kentish, 
without  losing  a  shade  of  his  rich  coloring.  "But 
in  any  case  I  suppose  we  may  have  a  chat  first?  I 
give  you  my  word  that  you  are  safe  from  further 
intrusion  to  the  level  best  of  my  knowledge  and 
belief.    May  I  sit  down  instead  of  standing?" 

"You  may." 

"We  are  a  good  many  yards  apart." 

"You  may  reduce  them  by  half.     There." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Kentish,  seating  himself 
tailorwise  within  arm's  length  of  Stingaree's  spurs. 
"Now,  if  you  will  feel  in  the  breast-pocket  of  my 
coat  you  will  find  a  case  of  very  fair  cigars — J.  S. 
Murias — not  too  strong.  I  shall  be  honored  if 
you  will  help  yourself  and  throw  me  one." 

Stingaree  took  the  one,  and  handed  the  case  with 
no  ungraceful  acknowledgment  to  its  owner;  but 
before  Mr.  Kentish  could  return  the  courtesy  by 
proffering  his  cigar-cutter,  the  bushranger  had  pro- 
duced his  razor  from  a  pocket  of  the  white  jacket, 
and  sliced  off  the  end  with  that. 

"So  you  shave  every  day  in  the  wilds,"  remarked 
the  other,  handing  his  match-box  instead.  "And 
I  gave  It  up  on  my  voyage." 

io8 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

"I  alter  myself  from  time  to  time,"  said  Sting- 
aree,  as  he  struck  a  light. 

"It  must  be  a  wonderful  life  1" 

But  Stingaree  ht  up  without  a  word,  and  Kentish 
had  the  wit  to  do  the  same.  They  smoked  in 
silence  for  some  minutes.  A  gray  ash  had  grown 
on  each  cigar  before  Kentish  demanded  an  opinion 
of  the  brand. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Stingaree,  "I  have 
smoked  strong  trash  so  many  years  that  I  can 
scarcely  taste  It." 

And  he  peered  rather  pathetically  through  his 
glass. 

"Didn't  the  same  apply  to  Punch  f 

"No;  I  have  always  read  the  papers  when  I 
could,"  said  Stingaree,  and  suddenly  he  was  smil- 
ing. "That's  one  reason  why  I  make  a  specialty 
of  sticking  up  the  mail,"  he  explained. 

Mr.  Kentish  was  not  to  be  drawn  Into  a  second 
deliverance  on  the  bushranging  career.  "Is  It  a 
good  number?"  he  asked,  nodding  toward  the 
copy  of  Punch.    The  bushranger  picked  it  up. 

"Good  enough  for  me." 

"What  date?" 

^'Nlnth  of  December." 

"Nearly  three  months  ago.  I  was  In  London 
then,"  remarked  Kentish,  in  a  reflective  tone. 

109 


Stingaree 

"Really?"  cried  Stingaree,  under  his  breath. 
His  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  other's,  but  there  was 
suppressed  interest  in  his  manner.  His  dark  eyes 
were  only  less  alight  than  the  red  cigar  he  took 
from  his  teeth  as  he  spoke.  And  he  held  it  like  a 
connoisseur,  between  finger  and  thumb,  for  all  his 
ruined  palate. 

"I  was,"  repeated  Kentish.  "I  didn't  sail  till 
the  middle  of  the  month." 

"To  think  you  were  in  town  till  nearly  Christ- 
mas!" and  Stingaree  gazed  enviously.  "It  must 
be  hard  to  realize,"  he  added  in  some  haste. 

"Other  things,"  replied  Kentish,  "are  harder." 

"I  gather  from  the  Punch  cartoon  that  the  new 
Law  Courts  are  in  use  at  last?" 

"I  was  at  the  opening." 

"Then  you  may  have  seen  this  opera  that  I 
have  been  reading  about?" 

Kentish  asked  what  it  was,  although  he  knew. 

"lolanthe." 

"Rather!     I  was  there  the  first  night." 

"The  deuce  you  were!"  cried  Stingaree;  and 
for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  this  armed  scoun- 
drel, the  terror  of  a  district  as  large  as  England 
and  Wales,  talked  of  nothing  else  to  the  man 
whom  he  was  about  to  bind  to  a  tree.  Was  the 
new  opera  equal  to  its  predecessors  ?    Which  were 

no 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

the  best  numbers?  Did  Punch  do  It  justice,  or 
was  there  some  jealousy  in  that  rival  hot-bed  of 
wit  and  wisdom? 

Unfortunately,  Guy  Kentish  had  no  ear  for 
music,  but  he  made  a  clear  report  of  the  plot,  could 
repeat  some  of  the  Lord  Chancellor's  quips,  and 
was  in  decided  disagreement  with  the  captious  ban- 
ter from  which  he  was  given  more  than  one  extract. 
And  in  default  of  one  of  the  new  airs  Stingaree 
rounded  off  the  subject  by  dropping  once  more 
into — 

"For  he  might  have  been  a  Rooshian, 
A  French,  or  Turk,  or  Prooshian, 

Or,  perhaps,  I-tal-i-an! 

Or,  perhaps,  I-tal-i-an! 
But  in  spite  of  all  temptations 
To  belong  to  other  nations 

He  remains  an  Englishman!" 

"I  understand  that  might  be  said  of  both  of 
us,"  remarked  Kentish,  looking  the  outlaw  boldly 
in  the  eyes.  "But  from  all  accounts  I  should  have 
thought  you  were  out  here  before  the  days  of 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan." 

"So  I  was,"  replied  Stingaree,  without  frown 
or  hesitation.  "But  you  may  also  have  heard  that 
I  am  fond  of  music — any  I  can  get.  My  only 
opportunities,  as  a  rule,"  the  bushranger  contin- 

III 


Stingaree 

ued,  smiling  miscnievously  at  his  cigar,  "occur  on 
the  stations  I  have  occasion  to  visit  from  time  to 
time.  On  one  a  good  lady  played  and  sang  Pina- 
fore and  The  Pirates  of  Penzance  to  me  from 
dewy  eve  to  dawn.  I'm  bound  to  say  I  sang  some 
of  it  at  sight  myself;  and  I  flatter  myself  it  helped 
to  pass  an  embarrassing  night  rather  pleasantly 
for  all  concerned.  We  had  all  hands  on  the  place 
for  our  audience,  and  when  I  left  I  was  formally 
presented  with  both  scores ;  for  I  had  simply  called 
for  horses,  and  horses  were  all  I  took.  Only 
the  other  day  I  had  the  luck  to  confiscate  a 
musical-box  w^hich  plays  selections  from  The 
Pirates.  I  ought  to  have  had  it  with  me  in 
my  swag." 

So  affable  and  even  charming  was  the  quiet 
voice,  so  evident  the  appreciation  of  the  last  inch 
of  the  cigar  which  had  thawed  a  frozen  palate, 
and  so  conceivable  a  further  softening,  that  Guy 
Kentish  made  bolder  than  before.  He  knew  what 
he  meant  to  do;  he  knew  how  he  meant  to  do  it. 
And  yet  it  seemed  just  possible  there  might  be  a 
gentler  way. 

"You  don't  always  take  things,  I  believe?"  he 
hazarded. 

"You  mean  after  sticking  up?" 

"Yes." 

112 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

"Generally,  I  fear;  it's  the  whole  meaning  of 
the  act,"  confessed  Stingaree,  still  the  dandy  in 
tone  and  phrase.  "But  there  have  been  excep- 
tions." 

"Exactly!"  quoth  Kentish.  "And  there's  going 
to  be  another  this  afternoon!" 

Stingaree  hurled  the  stump  of  his  cigar  into  the 
scrub,  and  without  a  word  the  villain  was  born 
again,  with  his  hard  eyes,  his  harder  mouth,  his 
sinister  scowl,  his  crag  of  a  chin. 

"So  you  come  back  to  that,"  he  cried,  harshly. 
"I  thought  you  had  more  sense;  you  w^ill  make  me 
tie  you  up  before  your  time." 

"You  may  do  exactly  what  you  like,"  retorted 
Kentish,  a  galling  scorn  in  his  unaltered  voice. 
"Only,  before  you  do  it,  you  may  as  well  know 
who  I  am." 

"My  good  sir,  do  you  suppose  I  care  who  you 
are?"  asked  Stingaree,  with  an  angry  laugh:  and 
his  anger  is  the  rarest  thing  in  all  his  annals. 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  don't,"  responded  Kentish. 
"But  you  may  as  well  know  my  name,  even  though 
you  never  heard  it  before."  And  he  gave  it  with 
a  touch  of  triumph,  not  for  one  moment  to  be  con- 
founded with  a  natural  pride. 

The  bushranger  stared  him  steadily  in  the  eyes; 
his  hand  had  dropped  once  more  upon  the  butt  of 

113 


Stingaree 

his  revolver.  "No;  I  never  did  hear  it  before," 
he  said. 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  replied  the  other.  "I  was 
a  new  member  when  you  were  turned  out  of  the 
club."  Stingaree's  hand  closed:  his  eyes  were 
terrible.  "And  yet,"  continued  Kentish,  "the  mo- 
ment I  saw  you  at  close  quarters  in  the  road  I 
recognized  you  as " 

"Stingaree!"  cried  the  bushranger,  on  a  rich 
and  vibrant  note.  "Let  the  other  name  pass  your 
lips — even  here — and  it's  the  last  word  that  ever 
will!" 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Kentish,  with  his  unaf- 
fected shrug.  "But,  you  see,  I  know  all  about 
you." 

"You're  the  only  man  who  does,  in  all  Aus^ 
traha!"  exclaimed  the  outlaw,  hoarsely. 

"At  present!     I  sha'n't  be  the  only  man  long." 

"You  will,"  said  Stingaree  through  teeth  and 
mustache;  and  he  leaned  over,  revolver  in  hand. 
"You'll  be  the  only  man  ever,  because.  Instead  of 
tying  you  up,  I'm  going  to  shoot  you." 

Kentish  threw  up  his  head  in  sharp  contempt. 

"What!"  said  he.     "Sitting?" 

Stingaree  sprang  to  his  feet  in  a  fury.  "No;  I 
have  a  brace!"  he  cried,  catching  the  pack- 
horse.     "You  shall  have  the  other,  if  it  makes  you 

114 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

happy;  but  you'll  be  a  dead  man  all  the  same. 
I  can  handle  these  things,  and  I  shall  shoot  to 
kill!" 

"Then  it's  all  up  with  you,"  said  Kentish,  rising 
slowly  in  his  turn. 

"All  up  with  me?  What  the  devil  do  you 
mean  : 

"Unless  I  am  at  a  certain  place  by  a  certain 
time,  with  or  without  these  letters  that  are  not 
yours,  another  letter  will  be  opened." 

Stingaree's  stare  gradually  changed  into  a 
smile. 

"A  little  vague,"  said  he,  "don't  you  think?" 

"It  shall  be  as  plain  as  you  please.  The  letter 
I  mean  was  scribbled  on  the  coach  before  I  got 
down.  It  will  only  be  opened  if  I  don't  return.  It 
contains  the  name  you  can't  bear  to  hear!" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  afternoon  sun  was 
sinking  with  southern  precipitancy,  and  Kentish 
had  got  his  back  to  it  by  cool  intent.  He  studied 
the  play  of  suppressed  mortification  and  strenuous 
philosophy  in  the  swarthy  face  warmed  by  the 
reddening  light;  and  admired  the  arduous  triumph 
of  judgment  over  instinct,  even  as  a  certain  admi- 
ration dawned  through  the  monocle  which  insensi- 
bly focussed  his  attention. 

"And  suppose,"  said  Stingaree — "suppose  you 
115 


Stingaree 

return  empty  as  you  came?"  A  contemptuous 
kick  sent  a  pack  of  letters  spinning. 

"I  should  feel  under  no  obligation  to  keep  your 
secret." 

"And  you  think  I  would  trust  you  to  keep  it 
otherwise?" 

"If  I  gave  you  my  word,"  said  Kentish,  "I 
know  you  would." 

Stingaree  made  no  immediate  answer;  but  he 
gazed  in  the  sun-flayed  face  without  suspicion. 

"You  wouldn't  give  me  your  word,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  would." 

"That  you  would  die  without  letting  that  name 
pass  your  lips?" 

"Unless  I  die  delirious — with  all  my  heart.  I 
have  as  much  respect  for  it  as  you." 

"As  much !"  echoed  the  bushranger,  in  a 
strange  blend  of  bitterness  and  obligation.  "But 
how  could  you  explain  the  bags  ?  How  could  you 
have  taken  them  from  me?" 

Kentish  shrugged  once  more. 

"You  left  them — I  found  them.  Or  you  were 
sleeping,  but  I  was  unarmed." 

"You  would  lie  like  that — to  save  my  name?" 

"And  a  man  whom  I  remember  perfectly.   .  .   ". 

Stingaree  heard  no  more;  he  was  down  on  his 
ii6 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

knees,  collecting  the  letters  Into  heaps  and  shov- 
elling them  Into  the  bags.  Even  the  copy  of 
Punch  and  the  loose  wrapper  went  In  with  the 
rest. 

"You  can't  carry  them,"  said  he,  when  none 
remained  outside.  "I'll  take  them  for  you  and 
dump  them  on  the  track." 

"I  have  to  pass  the  time  till  midnight.  I  can 
manage  them  in  two  journeys." 

But  Stingaree  insisted,  and  presently  stood  ready 
to  mount  his  mare. 

"You  give  me  your  word,  Kentish?" 

"My  word  of  honor." 

"It  Is  something  to  have  one  to  give!  I  shall 
not  come  back  this  way;  we  shall  have  the  Clear 
Corner  police  on  our  tracks  by  moonlight,  and  the 
more  they  have  to  choose  from  the  better.  So  I 
must  go.  You  have  given  me  your  word;  you 
wouldn't  care  to  give  me " 

But  his  hand  went  out  a  little  as  he  spoke,  and 
Kentish's  met  It  seven-eights  of  the  way. 

"Give  this  up,  man!  It's  a  poor  game,  when 
all's  said;  do  give  It  up!"  urged  the  man  of  the 
world  with  the  warmth  of  a  lad.  "Come  back  to 
England  and " 

But  the  hand  he  had  detained  was  wrenched 
from  his,  and,  in  the  pink  sunset  sifted  through 

117 


Stingaree 

the  pines,  Stingaree  vaulted  into  his  saddle  with 
an  oath. 

"With  a  price  on  my  skin!"  he  cried,  and  gal- 
loped from  the  gully  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

And  in  the  moonlight  sure  enough  came  bobbing 
horsemen,  with  fluttering  pugarees  and  short  tunics 
with  silver  buttons;  but  they  saw  nothing  of  the 
missing  passenger,  who  had  carried  the  bags  some 
distance  down  the  road,  and  had  found  them  quite 
a  comfortable  couch  in  a  certain  box-clump  com- 
manding a  sufficient  view  of  the  road.  Neverthe- 
less, when  the  little  coach  came  swaying  on  its 
leathern  springs,  its  scarlet  enamel  stained  black 
as  ink  in  the  moonshine,  he  was  on  the  spot  to  stop 
it  with  uplifted  arms. 

"Don't  shoot!"  he  cried.  "I'm  the  passenger 
you  put  down  this  afternoon."  And  the  driver 
nearly  tumbled  from  his  perch. 

"What  about  my  mail-bags?"  he  recovered 
himself  enough  to  ask:  for  it  was  perfectly  plain 
that  the  pretentiously  intrepid  passenger  had  been 
skulking  all  day  in  the  scrub,  scared  by  the  terrors 
of  the  road. 

"They're  in  that  clump,"  replied  Mr.  Kentish. 
"And  you  can  get  them  yourself,  or  send  someone 
else  for  them,  for  I  have  carried  them  far  enough." 

"That  be  blowed  for  a  yarn !"  cried  the  driver, 
ii8 


A  Bushranger  at  Bay 

forgetting  his  benefits  in  the  virtuous  indignation 
of  the  moment. 

**I  don't  wonder  at  your  thinking  it  one,"  re- 
turned the  other,  mildly;  "for  I  never  had  such 
absolute  luck  in  all  my  life!" 

And  he  went  on  to  amplify  his  first  lie  like  a  man. ', 

But  when  the  bags  were  really  back  in  the 
coach,  piled  roof-high  on  those  of  the  downward 
mail,  then  it  was  worse  fun  for  Guy  Kentish  out- 
side than  even  he  had  anticipated.  Question  fol- 
lowed question,  compliment  capped  compliment, 
and  a  certain  unsteady  undercurrent  of  incredulity 
by  no  means  lessened  his  embarrassment.  Had  he 
but  told  the  truth,  he  felt  he  could  have  borne  the 
praise,  and  indeed  enjoyed  it,  for  he  had  done 
far  better  than  anybody  was  likely  to  suppose,  and 
already  it  was  irritating  to  have  to  keep  that  cir- 
cumstance a  secret.  Yet  one  thing  he  was  able 
to  say  from  his  soul  before  the  coach  drew  up  at 
the  next  stage. 

"You  should  have  a  spell  here,"  the  driver  had 
suggested,  "and  let  me  pick  you  up  again  on  my  , 
way  back.  You'd  soon  lay  hands  on  the  bird  him- 
self, if  you  can  put  salt  on  his  tail  as  you've  done. 
And  no  one  else  can — we  want  a  few  more  chums 
like  you." 

"I  dare  say!" 

119 


Stingaree 

And  the  new  chum's  tone  bore  its  own  signifi- 
cance. 

"You  don't  mean,"  cried  the  driver,  "to  go  and 
tell  me  you'll  hurry  home  after  this?" 

"Only  by  the  first  steamer!"  said  Guy  Kentish. 

And  he  kept  that  word  as  well. 


1 20 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

STINGAREE  had  crossed  the  Murray,  and 
all  Victoria  was  agog  with  the  news.  It  was 
not  his  first  descent  upon  that  Colony,  nor  likely 
to  be 'his  last,  unless  Sub-Inspector  Kilbride  and  his 
mounted  myrmidons  did  much  better  than  they 
had  done  before.  There  is  no  stimulus,  however, 
like  a  trembling  reputation.  Within  four-and- 
twenty  hours  Kilbride  himself  was  on  the  track  of 
the  invader,  whose  heels  he  had  never  seen,  much 
less  his  face.    And  he  rode  alone. 

It  was  not  merely  his  reputation  that  was  at 
stake,  though  nothing  could  restore  that  more 
effectually  than  the  single-handed  capture  of  so 
notorious  a  desperado  as  Stingaree.  The  dashing 
officer  was  not  unnaturally  actuated  by  the  sum  of 
three  hundred  pounds  now  set  upon  the  outlaw's 
person,  alive  or  dead.  That  would  be  a  little 
windfall  for  one  man,  but  not  much  to  divide 
among  five  or  six;  on  the  other  hand,  and  with  all 
his  faults,  Sub-Inspector  Kilbride  had  courage 
enough  to  furnish  forth  a  squadron.  He  was  a 
black-bearded,  high-cheeked  Irish-Australian,  keen 

121 


Stingaree 

and  over-eager  to  a  disease,  restless,  irascible,  but 
full  of  the  fire  and  dash  that  make  as  dangerous 
an  enemy  as  another  good  fighter  need  desire. 
And  as  a  fine  fighter  in  an  infamous  cause,  Sting- 
aree had  his  admirers  even  in  Victoria,  where  the 
old  tale  of  popular  sympathy  with  a  picturesque 
rascal  v/as  responsible  for  not  the  least  of  the 
Sub-Inspector's  difficulties.  But  even  this  struck 
Kilbride  as  yet  another  of  those  obstacles  which 
were  more  easily  surm.ounted  alone  than  at  the 
head  of  a  talkative  squad;  and  with  that  convic- 
tion he  pushed  his  thoroughbred  on  and  on 
through  a  whole  cool  night  and  three  parts  of  an 
Australian  summer's  day.  Imagine,  then,  his  dis- 
gust at  the  apparition  of  a  mounted  trooper  gal- 
loping to  meet  him  In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
and  within  a  few  miles  of  a  former  hiding-place 
of  the  bushranger,  where  the  senior  officer  had 
strong  hopes  of  finding  and  surprising  him  now. 

"Where  the  devil  do  you  come  from?"  cried 
Kilbride,  as  the  other  rode  up. 

"Jumping  Creek,"  was  the  crisp  reply.     "Sta- 
tioned there." 

"Then  why  don't  you  stop  there  and  do  your 
duty?" 

"Stingaree!"  said  the  laconic  trooper. 

"What!     Do  you  think  you're  after  him  too?" 


122 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

"I  am  after  him." 

"So  am  I." 

"Then  you're  going  in  the  wrong  direction." 

Kilbride  flushed  a  warm  brown  from  beard  to 
hehiiet. 

"Do  you  know  who  you're  speaking  to?"  cried 
he.  "I'm  Sub-Inspector  Kilbride,  and  this  busi- 
ness is  my  business,  and  no  other  man's  in  this 
Colony.  You  go  back  to  your  barracks,  sir!  I'm 
not  going  to  have  every  damned  fool  in  the  force 
charging  about  the  country  on  his  own  account." 

The  trooper  was  a  dark,  smart,  dapper  young 
fellow,  of  a  type  not  easily  browbeaten  or  sub- 
dued. And  discipline  is  not  the  strong  point  of 
forces  so  irregular  as  the  mounted  police  of  a 
crescent  colony.  But  nothing  could  have  been 
more  admirable  than  the  manner  in  which  this 
rebuke  was  received. 

"Very  well,  sir,  if  you  wish  it;  but  I  can  assure 
you  that  you  are  off  the  track  of  Stingaree." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Kilbride,  rudely; 
but  he  was  beginning  to  look  less  black. 

"I  happen  to  know  the  place.  You  would  have 
some  difliculty  in  finding  it  if  you  never  were  there 
before.  I  only  stumbled  across  It  by  accident 
myself." 

"Lately?" 

123 


Stingaree 


"One  day  last  winter  when  I  was  out  looking 

for  some  horses." 

"And  you  kept  it  to  yourself!" 

The  trooper  hung  his  head.  "I  knew  we  should 
have  him  across  the  river  again,"  he  said.  "It 
v/as  only  a  question  of  time;  and — well,  sir,  you 
can  understand !" 

"You  were  keen  on  taking  him  yourself,  were 
you?" 

"As  keen  as  you  are,  Mr.  Kilbride !"  owned  the 
younger  man,  raising  bold  eyes,  and  looking  his 
superior  fairly  and  squarely  in  the  face. 

Kilbride  returned  the  stare,  and  what  he  saw 
unsettled  him.  The  other  was  wiry,  trim,  emi- 
nently alert;  he  had  the  masterful  m.outh  and  the 
dare-devil  eye,  and  his  horse  seemed  a  part  of 
himself.  A  more  promising  comrade  at  hot  work 
was  not  to  be  desired :  and  the  work  would  be  hot 
if  Stingaree  had  half  a  chance.  After  all,  it  was 
better  for  two  to  succeed  than  for  one  to  fail. 
"Half  the  money  and  a  whole  skin !"  said  Kilbride 
to  himself,  and  rapped  out  his  decision  with  an 
oath. 

The  trooper's  eyes  lit  with  reckless  mirth,  and 
a  soft  cheer  came  from  under  his  breath. 

"By  the  bye,  what's  your  name,"  said  Kilbride, 
"before  we  start?" 

124 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

"Bowen — Jack  Bowen." 

"Then  I  know  all  about  you !  Why  on  earth 
didn't  you  tell  me  before?  It  was  you  who  took 
that  black  fellow  who  murdered  the  shepherd  on 
Woolshed  Creek,  wasn't  it?" 

The  admission  was  made  with  due  modesty. 

"Why,  you're  the  very  man  for  me!"  Kilbride 
cried.  "You  show  the  way,  Jack,  and  I'll  make 
the  going." 

And  off  they  went  together  at  a  canter,  the  slant- 
ing sun  striking  fire  from  their  buttons  and  accou- 
trements, and  lighting  their  sunburnt  faces  as  it 
lit  the  red  stems  and  the  white  that  raced  past 
them  on  either  side.  For  a  little  they  followed 
the  path  which  Kilbride  had  taken  on  his  way 
thither;  then  the  trooper  plunged  into  the  thick 
bush  on  the  left,  and  the  game  became  follow-my- 
leader,  in  and  out,  out  and  in,  through  a  maze  of 
red  stems  and  of  "white,  where  the  pungent  eucalyp- 
tus scent  hung  heavy  as  the  sage-green,  perpendicu- 
lar leaves  themselves :  and  so  onward  until  the 
Sub-Inspector  called  a  halt. 

"How  far  is  it  now,  Bowen?" 

"Two  or  three  miles,  sir." 

"Good!  It'll  be  light  for  another  hour  and  a 
half.  We'd  better  give  the  mokes  a  breather  while 
we  can.     And  there'd  be  no  harm  in  two  draws." 

125 


Stingaree 

'I  was  just  thinking  the  same  thing,  sir." 

So  their  reins  dangled  while  they  cut  up  a  pipe- 
ful of  apparent  shoe-leather  apiece :  and  presently 
the  dull  blue  smoke  was  curling  and  circling 
against  the  dull  green  foliage,  producing  subtle 
half-tint  harmonies  and  momentary  arabesques  as 
the  horses  ambled  neck  and  neck. 

"Native  of  this  Colony?"  puffed  Kilbride. 

"Well,  no — old  country  originally — but  I've 
been  out  some  years." 

"That's  all  right  so  long  as  you're  not  a  New 
South  Welshman,"  said  Kilbride,  with  a  chuckle. 
"I'll  be  shot  If  I  wouldn't  almost  have  turned  you 
back  if  you  had  been!" 

"Victoria  Is  to  have  all  the  credit,  is  she, 
sir?" 

"Anyhow  they  sha'n't  have  any  on  the  other 
side,  or  I'll  know  the  reason !"  the  Victorian  swore. 
"I — I — by  Jove,  I'd  as  lief  lose  my  man  again 
as  let  them  have  a  hand  In  taking  him!" 

"But  why?" 

"Why  ?  Do  you  live  so  near  the  border,  and  can 
you  ask?  Did  you  never  hear  a  Sydney-side  drover 
blowing  about  his  blooming  Colony?  Haven't 
you  heard  of  Sydney  Harbor  till  you're  sick?  And 
then  their  papers !"  cried  Kilbride,  with  columns  in 
his  tone.     "But  I'll  have  the  last  laugh  yet!     I 

126 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

swore  I  would,  and  I  will!  I  swore  I'd  take 
Stingaree " 

"So  I  heard." 

"Yes,  they  put  It  In  their  Infernal  papers!  But 
It  was  true — take  him  I  will !" 

"Or  die  In  the  attempt,  eh?" 

"Or  die  and  be  damned  to  me  !" 

All  the  bitterness  of  previous  failure,  indeed  of 
notorious  and  much-crltlclzed  defeat,  was  In  the 
Sub-Inspector's  tone;  that  of  his  subordinate, 
though  light  as  air,  had  a  touch  of  Insolence  which 
an  outsider  could  not  have  failed — but  Kilbride 
was  too  excited — to  detect.  The  outsider  might 
possibly  have  foreseen  a  rivalry  which  no  longer 
entered  Kilbride's  hot  head. 

Meanwhile  the  country  was  changing  even  with 
their  now  leisurely  advance.  The  timbered  flats  In 
the  region  of  the  river  had  merged  Into  a  gully 
which  was  rapidly  developing  Into  a  gorge,  with 
new  luxuriant  growths  which  added  greatly  to  the 
density  of  the  forest,  suggesting  Its  very  heart. 
The  almost  neutral  eucalyptian  tint  was  splashed 
with  the  gay  hues  of  many  parrots,  as  though  the 
gum-trees  had  burst  Into  flower.  The  noise  of 
running  water  stole  gradually  through  the  murmur 
of  leaves.  And  suddenly  an  object  in  the  grass 
struck  the  sight  like  a  lantern  flashed  at  dead  of 

127 


Stingaree 

night:    it   proved    to    be    an    empty    sardine    tin 
pricked  by  a  stray  lance  from  the  slanting  sun. 

"We  must  be  near,"  whispered  Kilbride. 

"We  are  there!  You  hear  the  creek?  He  has 
a  gunyah  there — that's  all.  Shall  we  rush  it  on 
horseback  or  creep  up  on  foot?" 

"You  know  the  lie  of  the  land,  Bowen;  which 
do  you  recommend?" 

"Rushing  it." 

"Then  here  goes." 

In  a  few  seconds  they  had  leaped  their  horses 
into  a  tiny  clearing  on  the  banks  of  a  creek  as 
relatively  minute.  And  the  gunyah — a  mere  fun- 
nel of  boughs  and  leaves,  in  which  a  man  could  lie 
at  full  length,  but  only  sit  upright  at  the  funnel's 
mouth — seemed  as  empty  as  the  space  on  every 
hand.  The  only  other  sign  of  Stingaree  was  a  hank 
of  rope  flung  carelessly  across  the  gunyah  roof. 

"He  may  be  watching  us  from  among  the 
trees,"  muttered  Kilbride,  looking  sharply  about 
him.  Bowen  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  followed 
suit. 

"I  hardly  think  it,  Mr.  Kilbride." 

"But  it's  possible,  and  here  we  sit  for  him  to 
pot  us !     Let's  dismount,  whether  or  no." 

They  slid  to  the  ground.  The  trooper  found 
himself  at  the  mouth  of  the  gunyah. 

128 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

"What  If  he  were  in  there  after  all!"  said  he. 

"He  isn't,"  said  Kilbride,  stepping  in  front  and 
stooping  quickly.  "But  you  might  creep  in,  Jack, 
and  see  if  he's  left  any  sign  of  life  behind  him." 

The  men  were  standing  between  the  horses, 
their  revolvers  cocked.  Bowen's  answer  was  to 
hand  his  weapon  over  to  Kilbride  and  to  creep 
into  the  gunyah  on  his  hands  and  knees. 

"Here's  something  or  other,"  his  voice  cried 
thickly  from  within.  "It's  half  buried.  Wait  a 
bit." 

"As  sharp  as  you  can !" 

"All  right;  but  it's  a  box,  and  jolly  heavy!" 

Kilbride  peered  nervously  to  right,  left,  and 
centre;  then  his  eyes  fell  upon  his  companion  wrig- 
gling back  into  the  open,  a  shallow,  oblong  box  in 
his  arms,  its  polish  dimmed  and  dusted  with  the 
mould,  as  though  they  had  violated  a  grave. 

"Kick  it  open!"  exclaimed  Kilbride,  excitedly. 

But  there  was  no  need  for  that;  the  box  was 
not  even  locked;  and  the  hfted  lid  revealed  an 
Inner  one  of  glass,  protecting  a  brass  cylinder 
with  steel  bristles  in  uneven  growth,  and  a  long 
line  of  lilliputian  hammers. 

"A  musical-box!"  said  the  staggered  Sub- 
Inspector. 

"That's  it,  sir.  I  remember  hearing  that  he'd 
129 


Stingaree 

collared  one  on  one  of  the  stations  he  stuck  up  last 
time  he  was  down  here.  It  must  have  lain  in  the 
ground  ever  since.  And  it  only  shows  how  hard 
you  must  have  pressed  him,  Mr.  Kilbride!" 

"Yes!  I  headed  him  back  across  the  Murray 
— I  soon  had  him  out  o'  this!"  rejoined  the  other 
in  grim  bravado.    "Anything  else  in  the  gunyah?" 

"All  he  took  that  trip,  I  fancy.  If  we  dig 
a  bit.  You  never  gave  him  time  to  roll  his 
swag!" 

"I  must  have  a  look,"  said  Kilbride,  his  excite- 
ment fed  by  his  reviving  vanity. 

The  other  questioned  whether  it  were  worth 
while.     This  settled  the  Sub-Inspector. 

"There  may  be  something  to  show  where  he's 
gone,"  that  casuist  suggested,  "for  I  don't  believe 
he's  anywhere  here." 

"Shall  I  hold  the  shooters,  sir?" 

"Thanks;  and  keep  your  eyes  open,  just  In  case. 
But  It's  my  opinion  that  the  bird's  flown  some- 
where else,  and  it's  for  us  to  find  out  where." 

Kilbride  then  crept  Into  the  gunyah  upon  his 
hands  and  knees,  and  found  it  less  dark  than  he 
had  supposed,  the  light  filtering  freely  through 
the  leaves  and  branches.  At  the  inner  extremity 
he  found  a  mildewed  blanket,  and  the  place  where 
the  musical-box  had  evidently  lain  a  long  time; 

130 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

but  there,  though  he  delved  to  the  elbows  in  the 
loosened  earth,  his  discoveries  ended.  Puzzled 
and  annoyed,  Kilbride  was  on  the  verge  of  cursing 
his  subordinate,  when  all  at  once  he  was  given 
fresh  cause.  The  musical-box  had  burst  into  selec- 
tions from   The  Pirates  of  Penzance. 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  at?"  shouted  the  irate 
officer. 

"Only  seeing  how  it  goes." 

"Stop  it  at  once,  you  fool !     He  may  hear  it!" 

"You  said  the  bird  had  flown." 

"You  dare  to  argue  with  me?  By  thunder,  you 
shall  see!" 

But  it  was  Sub-Inspector  Kilbride  who  saw  most. 
Backing  precipitately  out  of  the  gunyah,  he  turned 
round  before  rising  upright — and  remained  upon 
his  knees  after  all.  He  was  covered  by  two  re- 
volvers— one  of  them  his  own — and  the  face  be- 
hind the  barrels  was  the  one  with  which  the  last 
hour  had  familiarized  Kilbride.  The  only  differ- 
ence was  the  single  eye-glass  in  the  right  eye.  And 
the  strains  of  the  musical-box — so  thin  and  tink- 
ling in  the  open  air — filled  the  pause. 

"What  in  blazes  are  you  playing  at?"  laughed 
the  luckless  officer,  feigning  to  treat  the  affair  as  a 
joke,  even  while  the  iron  truth  was  entering  his 
soul  by  inches. 

131 


Stingaree 

"Rise  another  inch  without  my  leave  and  you 
may  be  in  blazes  to  see  !" 

"Look  here»   Bowen,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Only  that  Stingaree  happens  to  be  at  home 
after  all,  Mr.  Kilbride." 

The  victim's  grin  was  no  longer  forced;  the 
situation  made  for  laughter,  even  if  the  laughter 
were  hysterical;  and  for  an  instant  it  was  given 
even  to  Kilbride  to  see  the  cruel  humor  of  it.  Then 
he  realized  all  it  meant  to  him — certain  ruin  or  a 
sudden  death — and  the  drops  stood  thick  upon  his 
skin. 

"What  of  Bowen?"  he  at  length  asked  hoarsely. 
The  idea  of  another  victim  came  as  some  slight 
alleviation  of  his  own  grotesque  case. 

"I  didn't  kill  him,"  Stingaree. 

"Good!"  said  Kilbride.  It  was  something  that 
two  of  them  should  hve  to  share  the  shame. 

"But  wing  him  I  did,"  added  the  bushranger. 
"I  couldn't  help  myself.  The  beggar  put  a  bullet 
through  my  hat;  he  did  well  only  to  get  one  back 
in  the  leg." 

Kilbride  longed  to  be  winged  and  wounded  in 
his  turn,  since  blood  alone  could  lessen  his  dis- 
grace. On  cooler  reflection,  however,  it  was  ob- 
viously wiser  to  feign  a  surrender  more  abject  than 
it  might  finally  prove  to  have  been. 

132 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

"Well,"  said  Kilbride,  "you  have  the  whip-hand 
over  me  this  time,  and  I  give  you  best.  How  long 
are  you  going  to  keep  me  on  my  knees  ?" 

"You  can  get  up  when  you  like,"  replied  Sting- 
aree, "if  you  promise  not  to  play  the  fool.  So  you 
were  really  going  to  take  me  this  time,  were  you? 
I  have  really  no  desire  to  rub  it  in,  but  if  I  were 
you  I  should  have  kept  that  to  myself  until  I'd 
done  it.  And  you  wanted  to  have  me  all  to  your- 
self? Well,  you  couldn't  pay  me  a  higher  compli- 
ment, but  I'm  going  to  pay  you  a  high  one  in 
return.  You  really  did  make  me  run  for  it  last 
time,  and  leave  all  sorts  of  things  behind.  So  this 
time  I  mean  to  take  them  with  me  and  leave  you 
here  instead.  Nevertheless,  you're  the  only  Vic- 
torian trap  I  have  any  respect  for,  Mr.  Kilbride, 
or  I  shouldn't  have  gone  to  all  this  trouble  to  get 
you  here." 

Kilbride  did  not  blanch,  but  he  heard  his  appar- 
ent doom  with  a  glittering  eye,  and  was  deaf  for  a 
little  to  The  Pirates  of  Penzance. 

"Oh!  I'm  not  going  to  harm  a  good  man  like 
you,"  continued  Stingaree,  "unless  you  make  me. 
Your  friend  Bowen  made  me,  but  I  don't  promise 
to  lire  low  every  time,  mark  you  !  There's  another 
good  man  on  the  other  side — Cairns  by  name — 
you  know  himi,  do  you?     He'll  kick  up  his  heels 

133 


Stingaree 


when  he  hears  of  this;  but  they  do  no  better  in 
New  South  Wales,  so  don't  you  let  that  worry  you. 
To  think  you  held  both  shooters  at  one  stage  of  the 
game!  I  trusted  you,  and  so  you  trusted  me;  if 
only  you  had  known,  eh?  Hear  that  tune,  and 
know  what  it  is?  It's  in  your  honor,  Mr.  Kil- 
bride." 

And  Stingaree  hummed  the  policemen's  chorus 
sotto  voce;  but  before  the  end,  with  a  swift  re- 
morse, Induced  by  the  dignity  of  Kilbride's  bearing 
in  humiliating  disaster,  he  swooped  upon  the  inso- 
lent instrument  and  stopped  Its  tinkle  by  touching 
the  lever  with  one  revolver-barrel  while  sedulously 
covering  the  Sub-Inspector  with  the  other.  The 
sudden  cessation  of  the  toy  music,  bringing  back 
into  undue  prominence  all  the  little  bush  noises 
which  had  filled  the  air  before,  brought  home  to 
Kilbride  a  position  which  he  had  subconsciously 
associated  with  those  malevolent  strains  as  some- 
thing theatrical  and  unreal.  He  had  known  in  his 
heart  that  it  was  real,  without  grasping  the  reality 
until  now.   He  flung  up  his  fists  in  sudden  entreaty. 

"Put  a  bullet  through  me,"  he  cried,  "If  you're 
a  man !" 

Stingaree  shook  a  decisive  head. 

"Not  If  I  can  help  it,"  said  he.  "But  I  fear  I 
shall  have  to  tie  you  up." 

134 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

"That's  slow  death!" 

"It  never  has  been  yet,  but  you  must  take  your 
chance.  Get  me  that  rope  that's  slung  over  the 
gunyah.     It's  got  to  be  done." 

Kilbride  obeyed  with  apparent  apathy;  but  his 
heart  was  inflamed  with  a  sudden  and  infernal 
glow.  Yes,  it  had  never  ended  In  death  in  any 
case  that  he  could  recall  of  this  time-honored  trick 
of  all  the  bushrangers;  on  the  contrary,  sooner  or 
later,  most  victims  had  contrived  to  release  them- 
selves. Well,  one  victim  was  going  to  complete 
his  release  by  hanging  himself  by  the  same  rope  to 
the  same  tree !  Meanwhile  he  confronted  his  cap- 
tor grimly,  the  coil  in  both  hands. 

"There's  a  loop  at  one  end,"  said  Stingaree. 
"Stick  your  foot  through  it — either  foot  you 
like." 

Kilbride  obeyed,  wondering  whether  his  head 
would  go  through  when  his  turn  came. 

"Now  chuck  me  the  other  end." 

It  fell  in  coils  at  the  bushranger's  feet. 

"Now  stand  up  against  that  blue  gum,"  he  con- 
tinued, pointing  at  the  tree  with  Kilbride's  re- 
volver, his  own  being  back  at  his  hip.  "And 
stand  still  like  a  sensible  chap  !" 

Stingaree  then  walked  round  and  round  the  tree, 
paying  out  the  long  rope,  yet  keeping  It  taut,  until 

135 


Stingaree 

it  wound  round  tree  and  man  from  the  latter's 
ankles  to  his  armpits.  Instinctively  Kilbride  had 
kept  his  arms  free  to  the  last,  but  they  were  no  use 
to  him  in  his  suit  of  hemp,  and  one  after  the  other 
his  wrists  were  pinned  and  handcuffed  behind  the 
tree.  The  cold  steel  came  as  a  shock.  The  captive 
had  counted  on  loosening  the  knots  by  degrees, 
beginning  with  those  about  his  hands.  But  there 
was  no  loosening  steel  gyves  like  these;  he  knew 
the  feel  of  them  too  well;  they  were  Kilbride's 
own,  that  he  had  brought  with  him  for  Stingaree. 
"Found  'em  in  your  saddle-bags  while  you  were  in 
my  gunyah,"  explained  the  bushranger,  stepping 
round  to  survey  his  handiwork.  "Sorry  to  sear 
the  kid — so  to  speak !  But  you  see  you  were  my 
most  dangerous  enemy  on  this  side  of  the 
Murray !" 

The  enemy  did  not  look  very  dangerous  as  he 
stood  in  the  dusk,  in  the  heart  of  that  forest, 
lashed  to  that  tree,  with  his  finger-tips  not  quite 
meeting  behind  it,  and  the  blood  already  on  his 
wrists. 

"And  now?"  he  whispered,  hoarse  already,  his 
lips  cracking,  and  his  throat  parched. 

"I  shall  give  you  a  drink  before  I  go." 

"I  won't  take  one  from  you  !" 

"I  shall  make  you,  if  I  have  to  be  a  bigger 
136 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

brute    than    ever.     You    must    live    to    spin    this 
yarn !" 

"Never!" 

Stingaree  smiled  to  himself  as  he  produced  pipe 
and  tobacco;  but  It  was  not  his  sinister  smile;  it 
was  rather  that  of  the  victor  who  salutes  the  van- 
quished in  his  heart.  Meanwhile  a  more  striking 
and  a  more  subtle  change  had  come  over  the  face 
of  Kilbride.  It  was  not  joy,  but  it  was  quite  a  new 
grimness,  and  In  his  own  preoccupation  the  bush- 
ranger did  not  notice  it  at  all.  He  sauntered 
nearer  with  his  knife  and  his  tobacco-plug,  and 
there  was  some  compassion  in  his  pensive  stare. 

"Cheer  up,  man!"  said  he.  "There's  no  dis- 
grace In  coming  out  second  best  to  me.  You  may 
smile.  You'll  find  it's  generally  admitted  in  New 
South  Wales.  And  after  all,  you  needn't  tell  little 
crooked  Cairns  how  It  happened.  So  that  stops 
your  smile!  But  he's  the  best  man  left  on  my 
tracks,  and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  If  he's  the  first 
to  find  you." 

"No  more  should  I !"  said  a  harsh  voice  behind 
the  bushranger.  "Hands  up  and  empty,  Stingaree, 
or  you're  the  next  dead  man  In  this  little  Colony!" 

Quick  as  thought  Stingaree  stepped  in  front  of 
the  tied  Victorian.  But  his  hands  were  up,  and  his 
eye-glass  dangling  on  Its  string. 

137 


Stingaree 

"Oh,  you  don't  catch  me  kill  two  birds,"  rasped 
the  newcomer's  voice,  "though  I'm  not  sure  which 
of  you  would  be  least  loss!" 

Stingaree  stood  aside  once  more,  and  waved  his 
hands  without  lowering  them,  bowing  from  his 
captor  to  his  captive  as  he  did  so. 

"Superintendent  Cairns,  of  New  South  Wales 
— Inspector  Kilbride,  of  Victoria,"  said  he.  "You 
two  men  will  be  glad  to  know  each  other." 

The  New  South  Welshman  drawled  out  a  dry 
expression  of  his  own  satisfaction.  His  was  a 
strange  and  striking  personality.  Dark  as  a  mu- 
latto, and  round-shouldered  to  the  extent  of  some 
distinct  deformity,  he  carried  his  eyes  high  under 
the  lids,  and  shot  his  piercing  glance  from  under 
the  penthouse  of  a  beetling  brow;  a  lipless  mouth 
was  pursed  in  such  a  fashion  as  to  shorten  the 
upper  lip  and  exaggerate  an  already  powerful  chin ; 
and  this  stooping  and  intent  carriage  was  no  less 
suggestive  of  the  human  sleuth-hound  than  were 
the  veiled  vigilance  and  dogged  determination  of 
the  lowered  face.  Such  was  the  man  who  had  suc- 
ceeded where  Kilbride  had  failed — succeded  at  the 
most  humiliating  moment  of  that  most  ignomini- 
ous failure — and  who  came  unwarrantably  from 
the  wrong  side  of  the  Murray.  The  Victorian 
stood  in  his  bonds  and  favored  his  rival  with  such 

138 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

a  glare  as  he  had  not  levelled  at  Stingaree  himself. 
But  not  a  syllable  did  Kilbride  vouchsafe.  And 
the  Superintendent  was  fully  occupied  with  his 
prisoner. 

"'Little  crooked  Cairns,'  am  I?  There  are 
those  that  look  a  jolly  sight  smaller,  and  '11  have 
a  worse  hump  than  mine  for  the  rest  of  their  born 
days !     Come  nearer  and  turn  your  back." 

And  the  revolver  was  withdrawn  from  its  car- 
rier on  the  stolen  constabulary  belt.  The  bush- 
ranger was  then  searched  for  other  weapons ;  then 
marched  into  the  bush  at  the  pistol's  point,  and 
brought  back  handcuffed  to  the  Superintendent's 
bridle. 

"That's  the  way  you'll  come  marching  home,  my 
boy;  and  one  of  us  on  horseback  each  side;  don't 
trust  you  in  a  saddle  on  a  dark  night!" 

Indeed,  it  was  nearly  dark  already,  and  in  the 
nebulous  middle-distance  a  laughing  jackass  was 
indulging  in  his  evening  peal.  Cairns  jerked  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  unearthly  cackle. 
"Lots  of  'em  down  here  in  Vic,  I  believe,"  said  he, 
and  at  length  turned  his  attention  to  the  bound 
man.  "You  see,  I  wanted  to  land  him  alive  and 
kicking  without  spilling  blood,"  he  continued,  open- 
ing his  knife.  "That  was  why  I  had  to  let  him  tie 
you  up." 

139 


Stingaree 

"You  let  him?"  thundered  the  Victorian,  break- 
ing his  silence  with  a  bellow.  It  was  as  though  the 
man  with  the  knife  had  cut  through  the  rope  into 
the  bound  man's  body. 

"Stand  still,"  said  he,  "or  I  may  hurt  you.  I 
had  to  let  him,  my  good  fellow,  or  we'd  have  been 
dropping  each  other  like  bullocks.  As  it  is,  not  a 
scratch  between  us,  though  I  found  young  Bowen 
in  a  pretty  bad  way.  Our  friend  had  stuck  up 
Jumping  Creek  barracks  in  the  small  hours,  put  a 
bullet  through  Bowen's  leg,  and  come  away  in  his 
uniform.  Pretty  tall,  that,  eh?  I  shouldn't  won- 
der if  you'd  swing  him  for  it  alone,  down  here  in 
Vic;  no  doubt  you've  got  to  be  more  severe  in  a 
young  Colony.  Well,  I  tracked  my  gentleman  to 
the  barracks,  and  I  found  Bowen  in  his  blood,  sent 
my  trooper  for  a  doctor,  and  got  on  your  tracks 
before  they  were  half  an  hour  old.  I  came  up 
with  you  just  as  he'd  stuck  you  up.  He  had  one 
in  each  hand.  It  wasn't  quite  good  enough  at  the 
moment." 

The  knife  snore  through  the  rope  for  the  last 
time,  and  it  lay  in  short  ends  all  round  the  tree. 

"Now  my  hands,"  cried  Kilbride  fiercely. 

"I  beg  pardon?"  said  the  satirical  Superin- 
tendent. 

"My  hands,  I  tell  you!" 
140 


The  Taking  of  Stingaree 

"There's  a  little  word  they  teach  'em  to  say  at 
our  State  Schools.  Perhaps  you  never  heard  it 
down  in  Vic?" 

"Don't  be  a  silly  fool,"  said  Kilbride,  wearily. 
"You  haven't  been  through  what  I  have!" 

"That's  true,"  said  Cairns.  "Still,  you  might 
be  decently  civil  to  the  man  that  gets  you  out  of  a 
mess." 

Nevertheless,  the  handcuffs  were  immediately 
removed ;  and  that  instant,  with  the  curtest  thanks, 
Sub-Inspector  Kilbride  sprang  forward  with  such 
vigorous  intent  that  the  other  detained  him  forcibly 
by  one  of  his  stiff  and  aching  arms. 

"What  are  you  after  now,  Kilbride?" 

"My  prisoner!" 

"Your  what?" 

"My  prisoner,"  I  said. 

"I  Hke  that — and  you  his  !" 

Kilbride  burst  into  a  voluble  defence  of  his 
position. 

"What  right  have  you  on  this  side  of  the  Mur- 
ray, you  Sydney-sider?  None  at  all,  except  as  a 
passenger.  You  can't  lay  finger  on  man,  woman, 
or  child  in  this  Colony,  and,  by  God,  you  sha'n't ! 
Nor  yet  upon  the  three  hundred  there's  on  his 
head;  and  the  sons  of  convicts  down  in  Sydney 
can  put  that  in  their  pipe  and  smoke  it !" 

141 


Stingaree 

For  all  his  cool  and  ready  insolence,  the  mis- 
shapen Superintendent  from  the  other  side  stood 
dazed  and  bewildered  by  this  volcanic  outpouring. 
Then  his  dark  face  flushed  darker,  and  with  a 
snarl  he  clinched  his  fists.  The  Victorian,  however, 
had  turned  on  his  heel,  and  now  his  liberated  hands 
flew  skyward,  as  though  the  bushranger's  revolver 
covered  him  yet  again. 

But  there  was  no  such  weapon  discernible 
through  the  shade;  no  New  South  Welshman's 
horse;  and  neither  sight,  sound,  wraith,  nor  echo 
of  Stingaree,  the  outlawed  bushranger,  the  terror 
and  the  despair  of  the  Sister  Colonies ! 

"I  thought  It  might  be  done  when  I  saw  how 
you  fixed  him,"  said  Kilbride  cheerfully.  "Those 
beggars  can  ride  lying  down  or  standing  up !" 

"I  believe  you  saw  him  clear !" 

"I'll  settle  that  with  you  when  I've  caught  him." 

"You  catch  him,  you  gum-sucker,  when  you  as 
good  as  let  him  go!" 

And  a  volley  of  further  and  far  more  trenchant 
abuse  was  discharged  by  Superintendent  Cairns, 
of  the  New  South  V/ales  Police.  But  Kilbride  was 
already  in  the  saddle ;  a  covert  outward  kick  with 
his  spurred  heel,  and  the  third  horse  went  canter- 
ing riderless  into  the  trees. 

"He  won't  go  far,"  sang  the  Sub-Inspector, 
142 


The  Taking  of  Stingareo 

"and  he'll  take  you  safe  back  to  barrack  ,  if  you 
give  him  his  head.  It's  easy  to  get  bushed  in  this 
country — for  new  chums  from  penal  settlements!" 
As  the  Victorian  galloped  into  the  darkness,  and 
the  New  South  Welshman  dashed  wildly  after  the 
third  horse,  the  laughing  jackass  in  the  invisible 
middle-distance  gave  his  last  grotesque  guffaw  at 
departed  day.  And  the  laughing  jackass  is  a  Vic- 
torian bird. 


143 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

SERGEANT  CAMERON  was  undressing  for 
bed  when  he  first  heard  the  voices  through 
the  weather-board  walls;  in  less  than  a  minute 
there  was  a  knock  at  his  door. 

"Here's  Mr.  Hardcastle  from  Rosanna,  sir.  He 
says  he  must  see  you  at  once." 

"The  deuce  he  does!     What  about?" 

"He  says  he'll  only  tell  you ;  but  he's  ridden  over 
in  three  hours,  and  he  looks  like  the  dead." 

"Give  him  some  whiskey,  Tyler,  and  tell  him 
I'll  be  down  in  tvv'o  ticks." 

So  saying,  the  gray-bearded  sergeant  of  the 
New  South  Wales  Mounted  Police  tucked  his 
night-gown  into  his  cord  breeches,  slipped  into  his 
tunic,  and  hastened  to  the  parlor  which  served  as 
court-room  on  occasion,  buttoning  as  he  went.  Mr. 
Hardcastle  had  a  glass  to  his  lips  as  the  sergeant 
entered.  He  was  a  very  fine  man  of  forty,  and  his 
massive  frame  was  crowned  with  a  countenance  as 
handsome  as  it  was  open  and  bold;  but  at  a  glance 
it  was  plain  that  he  was  both  shaken  and  exhausted, 
and  in  no  mood  to  hide  either  his  fatigue  or  his 

144 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

distress.  Sergeant  Cameron  sat  down  on  the  other 
side  of  the  oval  table  with  the  faded  cloth;  the 
younger  constable  had  left  the  room  when  Hard- 
castle  called  him  back. 

"Don't  go,  Tyler,"  said  he.  "You  may  as 
well  both  hear  what  I've  got  to  say.  It's — 
it's  Stingaree !" 

The  name  was  echoed  in  Incredulous  under- 
tones. 

"But  he's  down  In  Vic,"  urged  the  sergeant. 
"He's  been  giving  our  chaps  a  devil  of  a  time  down 
there !" 

"He's  come  back.  I've  seen  him  with  my  own 
eyes.  But  I'm  beginning  at  the  wrong  end  first," 
said  the  squatter,  taking  another  sip  and  then  sit- 
ting back  to  survey  his  hearers.  "You  know  old 
Duncan,  my  overseer?" 

The  sergeant  nodded. 

"Of  course  you  know  him,"  the  other  contin- 
ued, "and  so  does  the  whole  back-country,  and  did 
even  before  he  won  this  fortune  in  the  Melbourne 
Cup  sweep.  I  suppose  you've  heard  how  he  took 
the  news?  He  was  fuddling  himself  from  his  own 
bottle  on  Sunday  afternoon  when  the  mall  came; 
the  first  I  knew  of  It  was  when  I  saw  him  sitting 
with  his  letter  In  one  hand  and  throwing  out  the 
rest  of  his  grog  with  the  other.     Then  he  told  us 

145 


Stingaree 

he  had  won  the  first  prize  of  thirty  thousand,  and 
that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  have  his  next 
drink  at  his  own  place  in  Scotland.  He  left  us 
that  afternoon  to  catch  the  coach  and  go  down  to 
Sydney  for  his  money.  He  ought  to  have  been 
back  this  evening  before  sundown." 

The  sergeant  put  in  his  word : 

"That  he  ought,  for  I  saw  him  come  off  the 
coach  and  start  for  the  station  as  soon  as  they'd 
run  up  the  horse  he  left  behind  him  at  the  pub.  I 
wondered  what  had  brought  him,  if  he  was  so  set 
on  getting  back  to  the  old  country." 

"I  could  tell  you,"  said  Hardcastle,  after  some 
little  hesitation,  "and  I  may  as  well.  Poor  old 
Duncan  was  the  most  generous  of  men,  and  noth- 
ing would  serve  him  but  that  every  soul  on  Rosanna 
should  share  more  or  less  in  his  good  fortune.  I 
am  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  much  he  spoke  of 
pressing  on  myself.  You  have  probably  heard 
that  one  of  his  peculiarities  was  that  he  would 
never  take  payment  by  check,  like  other  people? 
I  believe  it  was  because  he  had  knocked  down  too 
many  checks  in  his  day.  In  any  case,  we  used  to 
call  him  Hard  Cash  Duncan  on  Rosanna;  and  I 
am  very  much  afraid  that  when  you  saw  him  he 
must  have  had  the  whole  of  his  thirty  thousand 
pounds  upon  him  in  the  hardest  form  of  cash." 

1.16 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

"But  what  has  happened,  Mr.  Hardcastle?" 

"The  very  worst,"  said  Hardcastle,  stooping  to 
sip.  The  three  heads  came  closer  together  across 
the  faded  tablecloth.  "There  was  no  sign  of  him 
at  seven ;  he  ought  to  have  been  with  us  before  six. 
We  had  done  our  best  to  make  it  an  occasion,  and 
it  seemed  that  the  dinner  would  be  spoilt.  So  at 
seven  young  Evans,  my  store-keeper,  went  off  at 
a  gallop  to  meet  him,  and  at  twenty-five  past  he 
came  galloping  back  leading  a  riderless  horse.  It 
was  the  one  you  saw  Duncan  riding  this  afternoon. 
There  was  blood  upon  the  saddle.  I  found  it. 
And  within  another  hour  we  had  found  the  poor 
old  boy  himself,  dead  and  cold  in  the  middle  of  the 
track,  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart." 

The  squatter's  voice  trembled  with  an  emotion 
that  did  him  honor  in  his  hearers'  eyes;  and  the 
gray-bearded  sergeant  waited  a  little  before  asking 
questions. 

"What  makes  you  think  it  is  Stingaree?"  he 
inquired,  at  length. 

"I  tell  you  I  saw  him  on  the  run,  with  my  own 
eyes,  this  morning.  I  passed  him  in  one  of  my 
paddocks,  as  close  as  I  am  to  you,  and  asked  him 
if  he  was  looking  for  the  homestead.  He  an- 
swered that  he  was  only  riding  through,  and  we 
neither  of  us  stopped." 

147 


Stingaree 

"Yet  you  knew  all  the  time  that  It  was 
Stingaree?" 

"No;  to  be  quite  honest,"  replied  Hardcastle, 
"I  never  dreamt  of  it  at  the  time.  But  now  I  am 
quite  positive  on  the  point.  He  hadn't  his  eye- 
glass in  his  eye,  but  it  was  dangling  on  its  cord  all 
right;  and  there  was  the  curled  mustache,  and  the 
boots  and  breeches  that  one  knows  all  about,  if 
one  has  never  seen  them  for  oneself.  Yet  I  own  It 
didn't  dawn  on  me  just  then.  I  happened  to  be 
thinking  of  the  stations  round  about,  and  wonder- 
ing if  they  were  as  burnt  up  as  we  are,  and  when  I 
met  this  swell  I  simply  took  him  for  a  new  chum 
on  one  or  other  of  them." 

"There  had  been  robbery,  of  course?" 

"An  absolute  clearance,"  said  Hardcastle.  "The 
valise  had  been  cut  to  ribbons  with  a  knife,  and  Its 
other  contents  were  strewed  all  about;  a  pocket- 
book  we  found  still  bulging  from  the  roll  of  notes 
which  had  been  taken  out.  I  waited  beside  him 
while  Evans  went  back  for  the  buggy,  and  when 
they  started  to  take  him  In  I  rode  on  to  you." 

"We'll  ride  back  with  you  at  once,"  said  the 
sergeant,  "and  find  you  a  fresh  horse  If  your  own 
has  had  enough.  Run  up  the  lot,  Tyler,  and  Mr. 
Hardcastle  can  take  his  choice.  It  seems  clear 
enough,"  continued  Cameron,  as  the  trooper  dis- 

148 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

appeared.  "But  this  is  a  new  departure  for  Sting- 
aree;  it's  the  very  thing  that  everybody  said  he 
would  never  do." 

"And  yet  it's  the  logical  climax  of  his  career;  it 
might  have  happened  long  ago,  but  it's  not  his  first 
blood  as  It  is,"  argued  Hardcastle,  when  he  had 
drained  his  glass.  "Didn't  he  wing  one  of  you 
down  in  Victoria  the  other  day?  Your  bush- 
ranger is  bound  to  come  to  it  sooner  or  later.  He 
may  much  prefer  not  to  shoot;  but  he  has  only  to 
get  up  against  a  man  of  his  own  calibre,  as  resolute 
and  as  well  armed  as  himself,  to  have  no  choice  in 
the  matter.  Poor  old  Duncan  was  the  very  type ; 
he  would  never  have  given  way.  In  fact,  we  found 
him  with  his  own  revolver  fast  in  his  hand,  and  a 
finger  frozen  to  the  trigger,  but  not  a  chamber 
discharged." 

"Yes?  Then  that  settles  it,  and  it  must  have 
been  foul  play,"  cried  Cameron,  owning  a  doubt 
in  its  dismissal.  "And  we  mustn't  lose  a  single 
minute  in  getting  on  this  blackguard's  tracks." 

Yet  it  was  midnight  before  the  little  cavalcade 
set  out  upon  a  ride  of  over  thirty  miles,  for  arrange- 
ments had  to  be  made  for  a  telegram  to  be  sent  to 
the  Glenranald  coroner  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
and  to  insure  this  it  was  necessary  to  disturb  the 
postmaster,  who  occupied  one  of  the  three  weather- 

149 


Stingaree 


board  dwellings  which  constituted  the  roadside 
hamlet  of  Clear  Corner.  A  round  moon  topped 
the  sand-hills  as  the  trio  rode  away;  it  was  near  its 
almost  dazzling  zenith  when  they  reined  up  at  the 
scene  of  the  murder.  This  v/as  at  a  point  where 
the  SRYidj  track  ran  through  a  belt  of  scrub,  and  the 
sergeant  got  off  to  examine  the  ground  with  Hard- 
castle,  while  Tyler  mounted  guard  in  the  saddle. 
But  nothing  of  importance  was  discovered  by  the 
pair  on  foot,  and  nothing  seen  or  heard  by  their 
mounted  comrade. 

They  found  the  station  still  astir  and  faintly 
aglow  in  the  veiled  daylight  of  the  mxoon.  A 
cluster  of  the  m.en  stood  in  a  glare  at  the  door  of 
their  hut;  the  travellers'  hut  betrayed  the  like 
symptoms  of  excitement;  at  the  kitchen  door  were 
more  men  with  pannikins,  and  odd  glimpses  of  a 
firelit,  white-capped  face  within.  But  on  the  broad 
veranda  sat  two  young  men  with  their  backs  to  a 
closed  and  darkened  window.  And  behind  the 
window  lay  all  that  remained  of  an  elderly  man, 
whose  brown,  gnarled  face  was  scarcely  recogniza- 
ble by  the  newcomers  in  its  strange  smooth  pallor, 
but  his  grizzled  beard  weirdly  familiar  and  still 
crisp  with  lingering  life. 

The  coroner  arriv^ed  in  some  thirty  hours,  which 
had   brought    forth   nothing   new;   his   jury   was 

iqo 


Tlie  Honor  of  the  Road 

drawn  from  the  men's  hut  and  rabbiters'  tents; 
and  after  a  prolonged  but  Inconclusive  investiga- 
tion, the  inquest  was  adjourned  for  a  week.  But 
the  seven  days  were  as  barren  as  the  first,  and  a 
verdict  against  some  person  unknown  a  foregone 
result.  This  did  not  satisfy  the  many  who  were 
positive  that  they  knew  the  person;  for  Stingaree 
had  been  seen  a  hundred  miles  lower  down,  doubt- 
less on  his  way  back  to  Victoria,  and  with  his 
appearance  altered  in  a  telltale  manner.  But  the 
coroner  thought  he  knew  better  than  anybody  else, 
and  had  his  way,  notwithstanding  the  manifest 
feeling  on  the  long  veranda  where  he  held  his 
court. 

So  jurors  and  spectators  drifted  back  to  hut  and 
tent  and  neighboring  station,  the  coroner  started  in 
his  buggy  for  Glenranald,  and  last  of  all  the  police 
departed,  leading  the  horse  which  Plardcastle  had 
ridden  home  from  their  barracks,  and  leaving  him 
at  peace  once  more  with  his  two  young  men.  But 
on  the  squatter  the  time  had  told ;  his  table  had  been 
full  to  overflowing  through  It  all ;  and  he  sank  into 
a  long  chair,  a  triile  grayer  at  the  temples,  a 
thought  looser  In  his  dress,  as  the  pugarees  of 
Cameron  and  Tyler  fluttered  out  of  sight. 

"I  think  we  might  have  a  drink,"  he  said  with 
a  wry  smile  to  Evans,  who  fetched  the  decanter 

151 


Stingaree 

from  the  store;  the  jackeroo  was  called  from  a 
stable  which  had  become  Augean  during  the  week, 
and  the  three  were  still  mildly  tippling  when  the 
store-keeper  came  to  his  feet. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  he.  "I  thought  we'd  seen 
the  last  of  the  plucky  police !" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  they're  coming  back?" 

"I  do,  worse  luck !  Cameron,  Tyler,  and  some 
new  joker  in  plain  clothes." 

Hardcastle  finished  his  drink  with  a  resigned 
smile,  and  stood  on  the  veranda  to  receive  the 
intruders. 

"After  all,  it  will  stave  off  the  reaction  I  began 
to  feel  the  moment  they  had  turned  their  backs," 
said  he.  "Well,  well,  well!  I  thought  I'd  just 
got  rid  of  you  fellows,  and  back  you  come  like 
base  coin!" 

"You  mustn't  blame  us,"  said  the  sergeant,  first 
to  dismount.  "We  couldn't  know  that  Superin- 
tendent Cairns  had  been  sent  up  from  Sydney, 
much  less  that  we  should  ride  right  into  him  in 
your  horse-paddock!" 

The  squatter  had  stepped  down  from  the  ve- 
randa with  polite  alacrity. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Cairns,"  said  he.  "I 
only  wish  you  had  come  before." 

The  creature  in  the  plain  clothes  looked  about 
152 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

him  with  a  dry  smile,  and  a  sharp  eye  upon  the 
younger  men  and  the  empty  glasses,  as  he  and  the 
sergeant  accompanied  Hardcastle  to  the  veranda, 
while  Tyler  took  charge  of  the  three  horses.  The 
fame  of  Cairns  had  travelled  before  him  to 
Rosanna,  but  none  had  been  prepared  for  a  figure 
so  weird  or  for  a  countenance  so  forbidding  and 
malign.  His  manners  were  equally  uncouth.  He 
shook  his  bent  head  to  decline  refreshment;  he 
pointedly  ignored  a  generalization  of  Hardcastle's 
about  the  crime;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  In  a 
gratuitously  satirical  style  of  his  own. 

"May  I  ask,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  if  you  are  the 
owner  or  the  manager  of  this  lodge  in  a  howling 
wilderness?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  I  am  both." 

"I  appreciate  the  sorrow.  I  failed  to  discern  a 
single  green  blade  as  I  came  along." 

"We  depend  on  salt-bush  and  the  like." 

"In  spite  of  which,  I  believe,  you  have  had  sev- 
eral lean  years?" 

"There's  no  denying  It." 

"I  am  sorry  to  be  one  of  so  many  Intruders  In 
such  a  season,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  but  I  shall  not 
trouble  you  long.  I  hope  to  take  the  murderer 
to-night." 

"Stingaree?" 

153 


Stingaree 

"Not  quite  so  loud,  please.  Who  else,  should 
you  suppose  ?  You  may  be  Interested  to  hear  that 
he  has  been  in  hiding  on  your  run  for  several  days, 
and  so  have  I,  within  fairly  easy  reach  of  him. 
But  he  is  not  a  man  to  be  taken  single-handed 
without  further  loss  of  life;  so  I  intercepted  you, 
sergeant,  and  now  you  are  both  enlightened.  To- 
night, with  your  assistance  and  that  of  your  young 
colleague,  I  count  upon  a  bloodless  victoiy.  But 
I  should  prefer  you,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  not  to  men- 
tion the  matter  to  the  very  young  men  whom  I 
noticed  in  your  compan)^  on  my  arrival.  Have  I 
your  promise  to  comply  with  my  wishes  on  this 
point,  and  on  any  other  which  may  arise  in  connec- 
tion with  the  capture?" 

And  a  steely  glitter  shot  through  the  beetling 
eyebrows;  but  Hardcastle  had  given  his  word 
before  the  request  was  rounded  to  that  pedantic 
neatness  which  characterized  the  crabbed  utter- 
ances of  the  round-shouldered  dictator. 

"That  Is  well,"  he  went  on,  "for  now  I  can 
admit  you  both  Into  my  plan  of  campaign.  Sup- 
pose we  sit  down  here  on  the  veranda,  at  the  end 
farthest  from  any  door.  Be  good  enough  to  draw 
your  chairs  nearer  mine,  gentlemen.  It  might  be 
dangerous  If  a  fourth  person  heard  me  say  that  I 
had  discovered  the  murderer's  ill-gotten  hoard!" 

154 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

"Not  you,  sir!"  cried  Cameron. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  the  squatter. 

"The  discoverer  was  not  divine,  and  indeed  no 
human  being  but  myself,"  the  bent  man  averred, 
turning  with  mischievous  humor  from  one  to  the 
other  of  his  astonished  hearers.  "Yes,  there  was 
more  gold  than  I  would  have  credited  a  sane 
Scotchman  with  carrying  through  the  wilds;  but 
the  bulk  was  in  small  notes,  and  the  whole  has 
been  buried  in  the  scrub  close  to  the  scene  of  the 
murder,  doubtless  to  avoid  at  once  the  detection 
and  the  division  of  such  unusual  spoil." 

"You  are  thinking  of  his  mate?" 

It  was  Cameron  who  had  asked  the  question, 
but  Mr.  Hardcastle  followed  immediately  with 
another. 

"Did  you  remove  the  spoil?" 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hardcastle !  How  you  must 
lack  the  detective  instinct !  Of  course,  I  left  every- 
thing as  nearly  as  possible  as  I  found  it;  the  man 
camps  on  the  spot,  or  very  near  It;  he  lights  no  fires 
and  is  careful  to  leave  no  marks,  but  I  am  more  or 
less  convinced  of  It.  And  that  Is  where  I  shall  take 
him  to-night,  or,  rather,  early  to-morrow  morning." 

"I  wish  you  could  make  it  to-night,"  said  Hard- 
castle, with  a  yawn  that  put  a  period  to  a  pause  of 
some  duration. 

155 


Stingaree 

"Why?"  demanded  the  detective,  raising  open 
eyes  for  once. 

"Because  I've  had  a  desperate  week  of 
it,"  rephed  Hardcastle,  "and  am  dead  with 
sleep." 

The  other  carried  his  growing  geniality  to  the 
length  of  an  almost  hearty  laugh. 

"My  dear  sir,  do  you  suppose  that  I  thought  of 
taking  you  with  us?  No,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  the 
risks  of  this  sort  of  enterprise  are  for  those  who 
are  paid  to  run  them.  And  there  is  a  risk;  if  we 
timed  our  attack  too  early  or  too  late  there  would 
be  bloodshed  to  a  certainty.  But  at  two  o'clock 
the  average  man  is  fast  asleep;  at  a  quarter  after 
one,  therefore,  I  start  with  Sergeant  Cameron  and 
Constable  Tyler." 

Hardcastle  yawned  again. 

"I  should  like  to  have  been  with  you,  but  there 
are  compensations,"  said  he.  "I  doubt  if  I  shall 
even  stay  up  to  see  you  off." 

"If  you  did  you  would  sit  up  alone,"  returned 
the  Superintendent.  "I  intend  to  turn  in  myself 
for  three  or  four  hours;  and  it  will  be  in  the  face 
of  all  my  wishes,  sergeant,  if  you  and  Tyler  do 
not  do  the  same.  No  reason  to  tell  him  what  a 
short  night  it's  to  be;  it  might  prevent  a  young 
fellow  like  that   from   getting   any  sleep   at   all. 

156 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

Merely  let  it  be  arranged  that  we  all  turn  in  be- 
times in  view  of  an  early  start;  we  three  alone  need 
know  how  early  the  start  will  be." 

They  had  their  simple  dinner  at  half-past  seven, 
when  the  detective  took  it  on  himself  to  entertain 
the  party,  and  succeeded  so  well  that  the  enter- 
tainment was  continued  on  the  veranda  for  the 
better  part  of  another  hour.  Doubled  up  in  his 
chair,  abnormal,  weird,  he  recounted  in  particular 
the  exploits  of  Stingaree  (included  a  garbled  ver- 
sion of  the  recent  fiasco  across  the  Murray)  with 
a  zest  only  equalled  by  his  confidant  undertaking 
to  avenge  the  death  of  Robert  Duncan  before 
another  day  was  out ;  all  listened  in  a  rapt  silence, 
and  the  younger  men  were  duly  disappointed  when 
the  party  broke  up  prematurely  between  nine  and 
ten.  But  they  also  had  played  their  part  in  a 
fatiguing  week;  by  the  later  hour  all  were  in  their 
rooms,  and  before  very  long  Rosanna  Station  lay 
lighted  only  by  the  full  white  moon  of  New  South 
Wales. 

Cameron  wondered  if  it  could  possibly  be  two 
o'clock,  while  Tyler  sat  up  insensate  with  the  full 
weight  of  his  first  sleep,  when  their  chief  crept  into 
the  double-bedded  room  in  which  the  two  police- 
men had  been  put.  He  owned  himself  before  his 
time  by  an  hour  and  more,  but  explained  that  he 

157 


Stingaree 

had  an  idea  which  had  only  struck  him  as  he  was 
about  to  fall  asleep. 

"If  we  hunt  for  the  fellow  in  the  dark,"  said 
he,  "we  may  give  him  the  alarm  before  we  come  on 
)  him.  But  if  we  go  now  there  is  at  least  a  chance 
that  we  may  find  his  fire  to  guide  us.  I  am  aware 
I  said  he  wouldn't  light  one  there,  but  everybody 
knows  that  Stingaree  uses  a  spirit-lamp.  In  any 
case  it's  a  chance,  and  with  a  desperate  man  like 
that  we  can't  afford  to  give  the  ghost  of  a  chance 
away." 

The  sergeant  dressed  without  more  ado,  as  did 
his  subordinate  on  learning  the  nature  of  their 
midnight  errand;  meanwhile  the  disturber  of  slum- 
bers was  gone  to  the  horse-yard  to  start  saddling. 
The  others  followed  in  a  few  minutes.  And  there 
was  the  horse-yard  overflowing  with  moonshine, 
but  empty  alike  of  man  and  beast. 

"I  wonder  what's  got  him?"  murmured  the  be- 
wildered sergeant  uneasily. 

"Old  Harry,  for  all  I  care  !"  muttered  the  other. 
'  "I'm  no  such  nuts  on  him,  if  you  ask  me.  There's 
a  bit  too  much  of  him  for  my  taste." 

In  his  secret  breast  the  sergeant  entertained  a 
similar  sentiment,  but  he  was  too  old  an  officer  to 
breathe  disaffection  In  the  ear  of  his  subaltern.  He 
contented  himself  with  a  mJld  expression  of  his 

158 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

surprise  at  the  conduct  of  the  Sydney  authorities 
in  putting  a  "towny"  over  his  head  without  so  much 
as  a  word  of  notice. 

"And  such  a  'towny' !"  echoed  Tyler.  "One 
you  never  heard  of  in  your  hfe  before,  and  never 
will  again !" 

"Speak  for  yourself!"  rejoined  Cameron,  irri- 
tated at  the  exaggeration  of  their  case.  "I  have 
heard  of  him  ever  since  I  joined  the  force." 

"Well,  he's  a  funny  joke  to  have  shoved  over 
us,  a  blooming  little  hunchback  like  that." 

"I  always  heard  that  he  was  none  the  worse  for 
what  he  couldn't  help,  and  now  I  can  understand 
it,"  said  the  sergeant,  "for  he's  not  such  a 
hunch " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  ugly  word  was  never  finished.  A  dozen 
hoofs  were  galloping  upon  them,  their  thunder 
muffled  by  the  sandy  road,  and  into  the  tank  of 
moonshine  came  two  horses,  hounded  by  the  detec- 
tive bareback  on  the  third. 

"Someone  left  the  slip-rails  down,  and  they 
were  all  over  the  horse-paddock,"  he  panted.  "But 
I  took  a  bridle  and  managed  to  catch  one,  and  it 
was  easy  enough  to  run  up  the  other  two." 

But  even  Constable  Tyler  thought  the  more  of 
their  misshapen  leader  for  the  feat. 

159 


Stingaree 

There  was  now  no  time  to  be  lost,  for  it  ap- 
proached midnight,  but  the  trio  were  soon  canter- 
ing through  the  horse-paddock  neck-and-neck,  and 
the  new  day  found  them  at  the  farther  gate.  The 
moon  still  poured  unbroken  brilliance  upon  that 
desert  world  of  sandy  stretches  tufted  with  salt- 
bush  and  erratically  overgrown  with  scrub.  The 
shadow  of  the  gate  was  as  another  gate  lying  ready 
to  be  hung;  for  each  particular  wire  in  the  fence 
there  was  a  thin  black  stripe  upon  the  ground.  The 
three  passed  through,  and  came  in  quick  time  upon 
the  edge  of  that  scrub  in  which  the  crime  had  been 
committed.    And  here  the  chief  called  a  halt. 

"The  two  to  nail  him  must  be  on  foot,"  said  he. 
"You  can  creep  upon  him  on  foot  as  you  never 
could  with  a  horse;  but  I  will  remain  m.ounted  in 
the  road  and  ride  him  down  if  he  shows  fight." 

So  the  pair  in  the  pugarees  walked  one  at  either 
stirrup  of  their  crooked  chief,  leaving  the  two 
horses  tethered  to  a  tree,  until  of  a  sudden  the 
whole  party  halted  as  one.  They  had  rounded  a 
bend  in  the  road  with  great  caution,  for  they  all 
knew  where  they  were ;  but  only  one  of  them  was 
prepared  for  the  position  of  the  light  which  flashed 
into  their  eyes  from  the  heart  of  the  scrub. 

It  was  a  tiny  light,  set  low  upon  the  ground,  and 
yet  it  flashed  through  the  forest  like  a  diamond  in 

i6o 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

a  bundle  of  hay.  It  burnt  at  no  little  distance  from 
the  track,  for  at  a  movement  It  was  lost,  but  It  was 
some  hundreds  of  yards  nearer  the  station  than  the 
scene  of  the  murder.  The  chief  whispered  that 
this  was  where  he  had  found  the  burled  booty,  and 
over  half  the  distance  he  led  the  way,  winding  In 
and  out  among  the  trees,  now  throwing  a  leg  across 
his  horse's  withers  to  avoid  a  bole,  anon  embracing 
its  neck  to  escape  contact  with  the  branches.  It  was 
long  before  they  could  discern  anything  but  the 
light  Itself  amid  the  trunks  and  branches  o£  the 
scrub. 

Suddenly  the  horseman  stopped,  beckoning  with 
his  free  hand  to  the  pair  afoot,  pointing  at  the  fire 
with  the  one  that  held  the  reins;  and  as  they  crept 
up  to  him  he  stooped  in  the  stirrups  till  his  mouth 
was  close  to  the  sergeant's  ear. 

"He's  sitting  on  the  far  side  of  the  light,  but 
you  can't  see  his  face.  I  thought  he  was  a  log,  and 
I  still  believe  he's  asleep.  Creep  on  him  hke  cats 
till  he  looks  up ;  then  rush  him  with  your  revolvers 
before  he  can  draw  his,  and  I'll  support  you  with 
mine !" 

Nearer  and  nearer  stole  Cameron  and  Tyler; 
the  rider  managed  to  coax  a  few  more  noiseless 
steps  from  his  clever  mount,  but  dropped  the  reins 
and  squared  his  elbows  some  twenty  paces  from  the 

i6i 


Stingaree 


light — a  hurricane  lamp  now  in  the  sharpest  focus. 
The  policemen  crawled  some  yards  ahead;  all 
three  carried  revolver  in  hand.  But  still  the  unsus- 
pecting figure  sat  motionless,  his  chin  upon  his 
chest,  the  brim  of  his  wideawake  hiding  his  face,  a 
little  heap  of  gold  and  notes  before  him  on  the 
ground.  Then  the  Superintendent's  horse  flung 
up  its  head;  its  teeth  champed  upon  the  bit;  the 
man  sat  bolt  upright,  and  the  light  of  the  hurricane 
lam.p  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  Hardcastle  the 
squatter. 

"Rush  him!  rush  him!  That's  the  man  we 
want!" 

But  the  momentary  stupefaction  of  the  police 
had  given  Hardcastle  his  opportunity;  the  hurri- 
cane lamp  flew  between  them,  going  out  where  it 
fell,  and  for  a  minute  the  revolvers  spat  harmlessly 
in  the  remaining  patchwork  of  moonshine  and 
shadow. 

"Get  behind  trees;  shoot  low,  don't  kill  him!" 
shouted  the  chief  from  his  saddle.  "Now  on  to 
him  before  he  can  load  again.  That's  It !  Pin 
him. !  Throw  your  revolvers  away,  or  he'll  snatch 
one  before  you  know  where  you  are !  Ah,  I 
thought  he  was  too  strong  for  you !  Mr.  Hard- 
castle, I'll  put  a  bullet  through  you  myself  if  you 
don't  instantly  surrender!" 

162 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

And  the  fight  ended  with  the  bent  man  leaning 
in  his  stirrups  over  the  locked  and  swaying  group, 
as  he  brandished  his  revolver  to  suit  deed  to  word. 
It  was  a  heavy  blow  with  the  long  barrel  that 
finally  turned  the  scale.  In  a  few  seconds  Hard- 
castle  stood  a  prisoner,  the  handcuffs  fitting  his 
large  wrists  like  gloves,  his  great  frame  panting 
from  the  fray,  and  yet  a  marvel  of  monstrous  man- 
hood in  its  stoical  and  defiant  carriage. 

"For  God's  sake,  Cairns,  do  what  you  say!"  he 
cried.  "Put  three  bullets  through  me,  and  divide 
what's  on  the  ground  between  you !" 

"I  half  wish  we  could,  for  your  sake,"  was  the 
reply.  "But  It's  idle  to  speak  of  it,  and  I'm  afraid 
you've  committed  a  crime  that  places  you  beyond 
the  reach  of  sympathy." 

"That  he  has  !"  cried  the  sergeant,  wiping  blood 
from  his  gray  beard.  "It's  plain  as  a  pikestaff  now ; 
and  to  think  that  he  was  the  one  to  come  and  fetch 
us  the  very  night  he'd  done  it !  But  what  licks  me 
more  than  anything  is  how  in  the  world  you  found 
him  out,  sir!" 

The  hunchback  looked  down  upon  the  stalwart 
prisoner  standing  up  to  his  last  inch  between  his 
two  captors:  there  was  an  impersonal  interest  in 
the  man's  bold  eyes  that  invited  a  statement  more 
eloquently  than  the  sergeant's  tongue. 

163 


Stingaree 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  horseman,  smiling 
down  upon  the  three  on  foot.  "In  the  first  place, 
I  had  my  own  reasons  for  knowing  that  Stingaree 
was  nowhere  near  this  place  on  the  night  of  the 
murder,  for  I  happen  to  have  been  on  his  tracks 
for  some  time.  Who  knew  all  about  the  dead 
man's  stroke  of  luck,  his  insane  preference  for  hard 
cash,  the  time  of  his  return?  Mr.  Hardcastle,  for 
one.  Who  swore  that  he  had  met  Stingaree  face 
to  face  upon  the  run?  Mr.  Hardcastle  alone; 
there  was  not  a  soul  to  corroborate  or  contradict 
him.  Who  was  in  need  of  many  thousand  pounds  ? 
Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I  suspected,  and  as  he  practi- 
cally admitted  to  mc  when  we  discussed  the  bad 
season  on  my  arrival.  I  was  pretty  sure  of  my 
man  before  I  crossed  the  boundary  fence,  but  I  was 
absolutely  convinced  before  I  had  spent  twenty 
minutes  on  his  veranda." 

The  prisoner  smiled  sardonically  in  the  moon- 
light. The  policemen  gazed  with  awe  upon  the 
man  who  had  solved  a  nine  days'  mystery  in  fewer 
hours. 

"You  must  remember,"  he  continued,  "that  I 
have  spent  some  days  and  nights  upon  the  run; 
during  the  days  I  have  camped  in  the  thickest 
scrub  I  could  find,  but  by  night  I  have  been  very 
busy,   and  last  night  I  had  a  stroke  of  luck.     I 

164 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

stumbled  by  accident  on  a  track  that  led  me  to 
the  place  I  had  been  looking  for  all  along.  You 
see,  I  had  put  myself  in  Hardcastle's  skin,  and  I 
was  quite  clear  that  I  should  have  buried  a  lapful 
of  gold  and  notes  somewhere  in  the  bush  until  the 
hue  and  cry  had  blown  over.  Not  that  I  expected 
to  find  it  so  near  the  scene  of  the  crime — I  should 
certainly  have  gone  farther  afield  myself." 

"But  I  can't  make  out  why  that  wasn't  enough 
for  you,  sir,"  ventured  the  sergeant,  deferentially. 
"Why  didn't  you  come  in  and  arrest  him  on  that?" 

"You  shall  see  in  three  minutes.  Wasn't  it  far 
better  to  catch  him  red-handed  as  we  have?  You 
will  at  least  admit  that  it  was  far  neater.  I  say  I 
have  the  place.  I  say  we  are  all  going  to  it  at  two 
in  the  morning.  I  say,  let  us  sleep  till  a  little  after 
one.  Was  it  not  obvious  what  would  happen? 
The  only  thing  I  did  not  expect  was  to  find  him 
asleep  with  the  swag  under  his  nose." 

Then  Hardcastle  spoke  up. 

"I  was  not  asleep,"  said  he.  "I  thought 
I  was  safe  for  an  hour  or  two  .  .  .  and 
I  began  to  think  ...  I  was  wondering  what 
to  do  .  .  .  whether  to  cut  my  throat  at 
once     ..." 

And  his  dreadful  voice  died  away  like  a  single 
chord  struck  in  an  empty  room. 

165 


Stingaree 

"But  Stingaree,"  put  In  Tyler  in  the  end. 
"What's  happened  to  him?" 

"He  also  has  been  here.  But  he  was  many  a 
mile  away  at  the  time." 

"What  brought  him  here?" 

The  crooked  Superintendent  from  Sydney  was 
sitting  strangely  upright  in  his  saddle;  his  face  was 
not  to  be  seen,  for  his  back  was  to  the  moon,  but 
he  seemed  to  rub  one  of  his  eyes. 

He  may  have  wished  to  clear  his  character.  He 
may  have  itched  to  uphold  the  honor  of  that  road 
of  which  he  considers  himself  a  not  imperfect 
knight.  He  may  have  found  it  so  jolly  easy  to 
play  policeman  down  in  Victoria,  that  he  couldn't 
resist  another  shot  in  a  better  cause  up  here.  At 
his  worst  he  never  killed  a  man  in  all  his  life.  And 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  take  his  own  word  for 
it  that  he  never  will !" 

He  had  backed  his  horse  while  he  spoke;  he 
turned  a  little  to  the  light,  and  the  eye-glasa 
gleamed  in  his  eye. 

The  young  constable  sprang  forward. 

"Stingaree!"  he  screamed. 

But  the  gray  sergeant  flung  his  arms  round  their 
prisoner. 

"That's  right!"  cried  the  bushranger,  as  he 
trotted  off.     "Your  horses  and  even  your  pistols 

i66 


'I'lie  gray  sergeant  fliuig  his 


inns  ruiiiii 


leir  prisoner. 


The  Honor  of  the  Road 

are  out  of  reach,  thanks  to  a  discipline  for  which 
I  love  you  dearly.  You  hang  on  to  your  bird  in 
the  hand,  my  friends,  and  never  again  misjudge 
the  one  in  the  bush!" 

And  as  the  trees  swallowed  the  cantering  horse 
and  man,  followed  by  a  futile  shot  from  the  first 
revolver  which  the  young  constable  had  picked  up, 
an  embittered  admiration  kindled  in  the  captive 
murderer's  eyes. 


167 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

MULFERA  STATION,  N.S.W.,  was  not 
only  an  uttermost  end  of  the  earth,  but  an 
exceedingly  loose  end,  and  that  again  in  more 
senses  than  one.  There  were  no  ladies  on  Mulfera, 
and  this  wrought  inevitable  deterioration  in  the 
young  men  who  made  a  bachelors'  barracks  of  the 
homestead.  Not  that  they  ever  turned  it  into  the 
perfect  pandemonium  you  might  suppose;  but  it 
was  unnecessary  either  to  wear  a  collar  or  to  re- 
press an  oath  at  table;  and  this  sort  of  disregard 
does  not  usually  stop  at  the  elementary  decencies. 
It  is  true  that  on  Mulfera  the  bark  of  the  bachelor 
was  something  worse  than  his  bite,  and  his  tongue 
no  fair  criterion  to  the  rest  of  him.  Nevertheless, 
the  place  became  a  byword,  even  in  the  back- 
,  blocks;  and  when  at  last  the  good  Bishop  Methuen 
?  had  the  hardihood  to  include  it  in  an  episcopal 
itinerary,  there  were  admirers  of  that  dear  divine 
who  roundly  condemned  his  folly,  and  enemies  who 
no  longer  denied  his  heroism. 

The  Lo:-d  Bishop  of  the  Back-Blocks  had  at 
that  time  been  a  twelvemonth  or  more  in  charge 

1 68 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

of  what  he  himself  described  playfully  as  his 
"oceanic  see";  but  his  long  neglect  of  Mulfera  was 
due  less  to  its  remoteness  than  to  the  notorious  fact 
that  they  wanted  no  adjectival  and  alliterative 
bishops  there.  An  obvious  way  of  repulse  hap- 
pened to  be  open  to  the  blaspheming  squatter, 
though  there  Is  no  other  Instance  of  Its  employment. 
On  these  up-country  visitations  the  Bishop  was 
dependent  for  his  mobility  upon  the  horseflesh  of 
his  hospitable  hosts ;  thus  It  became  the  custom  to 
send  to  fetch  him  from  one  station  to  another;  and 
as  a  rule  the  owner  or  the  manager  came  himself, 
with  four  horses  and  the  big  trap.  The  manager 
of  Mulfera  said  his  horses  had  something  else  to 
do,  and  his  neighbors  backed  him  up  with  some 
discreet  encouragement  on  their  own  account.  It 
was  felt  that  a  slur  would  be  left  upon  the  whole 
district  if  his  lordship  actually  met  with  the  only 
sort  of  reception  which  was  predicted  for  him  on 
Mulfera.  Bishop  Methuen,  however,  was  one  of 
the  last  men  on  earth  to  shirk  a  plague-spot;  and 
on  this  one,  warning  was  eventually  received  that 
the  Bishop  and  his  chaplain  would  arrive  on  horse- 
back the  following  Sunday  morning,  to  conduct 
divine  service.  If  quite  convenient,  at  eleven  o'clock. 
The  language  of  the  manager  was  something 
inconceivable  upon  the  receipt  of  this  cool  advice. 

169 


Stingaree 

He  was  a  man  named  Carmichael,  and  quite  a 
different  type  from  the  neighbors  who  held  up 
horny  hands  when  the  Bishop  decided  on  his  raid. 
Carmichael  was  not  "a  native  of  this  colony,"  or 
of  the  next,  but  he  was  that  distressing  spectacle, 
the  public-school  man  who  is  no  credit  to  his  public 
school.  Worse  than  this,  he  was  a  man  of  brains ; 
worst  of  all,  he  had  promised  very  differently  as  a 
boy.  A  younger  man  who  had  been  at  school  with 
him,  having  come  out  for  his  health,  travelled  some 
hundreds  of  miles  to  see  Carmichael,  whose  con- 
versation struck  him  absolutely  dumb.  "He  was 
captain  of  our  house,"  the  visitor  explained  to  Car- 
mlchael's  subordinates,  "and  you  daren't  say  dash 
in  dormitory — not  even  dash!" 

In  appearance  this  redoubtable  person  was 
chiefly  remarkable  for  the  intellectual  cast  of  his 
still  occasionally  clean-shaven  countenance,  and  for 
his  double  eye-glasses,  or  rather  the  way  he  wore 
them.  They  were  very  strong  and  very  common, 
witliout  any  rims,  and  Carmichael  bought  them  by 
the  box.  He  would  not  wear  them  with  a  cord, 
and  in  the  heat  they  were  continually  slipping  off 
his  nose;  when  they  did  not  slip  right  off  they  hung 
at  such  an  angle  that  Carmichael  had  to  throw  his 
whole  body  and  head  backward  in  order  to  see 
anything  through  them  except  the  ground.     And 

170 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

when  they  fell,  someone  else  had  to  find  them  while 
Carmlchael  cursed,  for  his  naked  eye  was  as  blind 
as  a  bat's. 

"Let's  go  mustering  on  Sunday,"  suggested  the 
overseer — "every  blessed  man!  Let  him  find  the 
whole  place  deserted,  homestead  and  hut!" 

"Or  let's  get  blind  for  the  occasion,"  was  the 
bookkeeper's  idea — "every  mother's  son!" 

"That  would  do,"  agreed  the  overseer,  "If  we 
got  just  blind  enough.  And  we  might  get  the 
blacks  from  Poonee  Creek  to  come  and  join  the 
dance." 

The  overseer  was  a  dapper  Victorian  with  a 
golden  mustache  twisted  rakishly  up  and  down 
at  either  end  respectively,  like  an  overturned  letter 
S.  He  lived  up  to  the  name  of  Smart.  The  book- 
keeper was  a  servile  echo  with  a  character  and  a 
face  of  putt)'.  He  had  once  perpetrated  an  oppro- 
brious ode  to  the  overseer,  and  had  answered  to 
the  name  of  Chaucer  ever  since. 

Carmlchael  leaned  back  to  look  from  one  of 
these  worthies  to  the  other,  and  his  spectacled  eyes 
flamed  with  mordant  scorn. 

"I  suppose  you  think  you're  funny,  you  fellows," 
said  he,  and  without  the  oath  which  was  a  sign  of 
his  good-will,  except  when  he  lost  his  temper  with 
the  sheep.    "If  so,  I  wish  you'd  get  outside  to  enter- 

171 


Stingaree 


tain  each  other.  Since  the  fellow's  coming  we 
shall  have  to  let  him  come,  and  the  thing  Is  how 
to  choke  him  off  ever  coming  again  without  open 
insult,  which  I  won't  allow.  A  service  of  some 
sort  we  shall  have  to  have,  this  once." 

"I'm  on  to  guy  it,"  declared  the  indiscreet 
Chaucer. 

"If  you  do  I'll  rehearse  the  men,"  the  overseer 
promised. 

"You  idiots !"  thundered  Carmichael,  whose 
temper  was  as  short  as  his  sight.  "Can't  you  see 
I  weaken  on  the  prospect  as  much  as  the  two  of  you 
stuck  together?  But  the  beggar's  certain  to  be  a 
public-school  and  'Varsity  man :  and  I  won't  have 
him  treated  as  though  he'd  been  dragged  up  in 
one  of  these  God-forsaken  Colonies!" 

Now — most  properly — you  cannot  talk  like  this 
in  the  bush  unless  you  are  also  capable  of  confirm- 
ing the  insult  with  your  fists.  But  Carmichael 
could;  and  he  was  much  too  blind  to  fight  without 
his  glasses.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  same  strenuous 
character  who  had  set  his  dogmatic  face  against 
the  most  harmless  expletives  in  dormitory  at  school, 
and  set  it  successfully,  because  Carmichael  was  a 
mighty  man,  whose  influence  was  not  to  be  with- 
stood. His  standard  alone  was  changed.  Or  he 
was  playing  on  the  other  side.    Yet  he  had  brought 

172 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

a  prayer-book  with  him  to  the  back-blocks.  And 
he  was  seen  stutlying  it  on  the  eve  of  the  episcopal 
descent. 

"He  may  have  his  say,"  observed  Carmichael, 
darkly,  "and  then  I'll  have  mine." 

"Going  to  heckle  him?"  inquired  Smart,  In  a 
nasal  voice  full  of  hope  and  encouragement. 

"Not  at  the  function,  you  fool,"  replied  Car- 
michael, sweetly.  "But  when  it's  all  over  I  should 
like  to  take  him  on  about  the  Athanasian  Creed 
and  the  Thirty-nine  Articles."  Only  both  substan- 
tives were  qualified  by  the  epithet  of  the  country, 
for  Carmichael  had  put  himself  In  excellent  temper 
for  the  day  of  battle. 

That  day  dawned  blood-red  and  beautiful,  but 
in  a  little  it  was  a  blinding  blue  from  pole  to  pole, 
and  the  thermometer  in  the  veranda  reached  three 
figures  before  breakfast.  It  was  a  hot-wind  day, 
and  even  Carmichael's  subordinates  pitied  Dr". 
Methuen  and  his  chaplain,  who  were  riding  from 
the  south  In  the  teeth  of  that  Promethean  blast. 
But  Carmichael  himself  drew  his  own  line  with 
unswerving  rigidity;  and  though  the  deep  veranda 
was  prepared  as  a  place  for  worship,  and  covered 
In  with  canvas  which  was  kept  saturated  with 
water,  he  would  not  permit  an  escort  to  sally  even 
to  the  boundary  fence  to  meet  the  uninvited  prelate. 

173 


Stingaree 

Not  long  after  breakfast  the  two  horsemen 
jogged  into  view,  ambhng  over  the  sand-hills  whose 
red-hot  edge  met  a  shimmering  sky  some  little  dis- 
tance beyond  the  station  pines.  Both  wore  pith  hel- 
mets and  fluttering  buff  dust-coats,  but  both  had  hot 
black  legs,  the  pair  in  gaiters  being  remarkable  for 
their  length.  The  homestead  trio,  their  red  necks 
chafed  by  the  unaccustomed  collar,  gathered 
grimly  at  the  open  end  of  the  veranda,  where  they 
exchanged  impressions  while  the  religious  raiders 
bore  down  upon  them. 

"They  can  ride  a  bit,  too,  I'm  bothered  if  they 
can't,"  exclaimed  the  overseer,  in  considerable 
astonishment. 

"And  do  you  suppose,  my  good  fool,"  mquired 
Carmichael,  with  the  usual  unregenerate  embroid- 
dery — "do  you  in  your  innocence  suppose  that's  an 
accomplishment  confined  to  these  precious  prov- 
mces : 

"They're  as  brown  as  my  sugar,"  said  the  keeper 
of  books  and  stores. 

"The  Bishop  looks  as  though  he'd  been  out  here 
all  his  Hfe." 

Carmichael  did  not  quarrel  with  this  observation 
of  his  overseer,  but  colorless  eyebrows  were  raised 
above  the  cheap  glasses  as  he  stepped  into  the  yard 
to  shake  hands  with  the  visitors.     The  bearded 

174 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

Bishop  returned  his  greeting  in  a  grave  silence. 
The  chaplain,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  the  vic- 
tim of  a  nervous  volubility,  and  unduly  anxious  to 
atone  for  his  chiefs  taciturnity,  which  he  essayed 
to  explain  to  Carmichael  on  the  first  opportunity. 

"His  lordship  feels  the  heat  so  much  more  than 
I  do,  who  have  had  so  many  years  of  it;  and  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  he  is  still  a  little  hurt  at  not 
being  met,  for  the  first  time  since  he  has  been  out 
here." 

"Then  why  did  he  come?"  demanded  Carmi- 
chael, bluntly.     "I  never  asked  him,  did  I?" 

"No,  no,  but — ah,  well!  We  won't  go  into  it," 
said  the  chaplain.  "I  am  glad  to  see  your  prepa- 
rations, Mr.  Carmichael ;  that  I  consider  very  mag- 
nanim.ous  in  you,  under  all  the  circumistances ;  and 
so  will  his  lordship  when  he  has  had  a  rest.  You 
won't  mind  his  retiring  until  it's  time  for  the  little 
service,  Mr.  Carmichael?" 

"Not  I,"  returned  Carmichael,  promptly.  But 
the  worst  paddock  on  Mulfera,  in  its  worst  season, 
was  not  more  dry  than  the  manager's  tone. 

Shortly  before  eleven  the  bell  was  nmg  which 
roused  the  men  on  week-day  mornings,  and  they 
began  trooping  over  from  their  hut,  while  the  trio 
foregathered  on  the  veranda  as  before.  The  open 
end  was  the  one  looking  east   but  the  sun  was  too 

1/5 


Stingaree 

near  the  zenith  to  enter  many  inches,  and  with 
equal  thoroughness  and  tact  Carmichael  had  placed 
the  table,  the  water-bag,  and  the  tumbler,  at  the 
open  end.  They  were  all  that  he  could  do  in  the 
way  of  pulpit,  desk,  and  lectern. 

The  men  tramped  in  and  filled  the  chairs,  forms, 
tin  trunks,  and  packing-cases  which  had  been 
pressed  into  the  service  of  this  makeshift  sanctuary. 
The  trio  sat  in  front.  The  bell  ceased,  the  ringer 
entering  and  taking  his  place.  There  was  some 
delay,  if  not  some  hitch.  Then  came  the  chaplain 
with  an  anxious  face. 

"His  lordship  wishes  to  know  if  all  hands  are 
here,"  he  whispered  across  the  desk. 

Carmichael  looked  behind  him  for  several  sec- 
onds. "Every  man  Jack,"  he  replied.  "And 
damn  his  lordship's  cheek!"  he  added  for  his 
equals'  benefit,  as  the  chaplain  disappeared. 

"Rum  cove,  that  chaplain,"  whispered  Chaucer, 
in  the  guarded  manner  of  one  whose  frequent  por- 
tion is  the  snub  brutal. 

"How  so?"  inquired  Carmichael,  with  a  duly 
withering  glance. 

Chaucer  told  in  whispers  of  a  word  which  he 
had  overheard  through  the  weather-board  wall  of 
the  room  in  which  the  Bishop  had  sought  repose. 
It  was,  in  fact,  the  monosyllable  of  which   Car- 

176 


I 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

michael  had  just  made  use.  He,  however,  was  the 
first  to  heap  discredit  on  the  book-keeper's  story, 
which  he  laughed  to  scorn  with  as  much  of  his 
usual  arrogance  as  could  be  assumed  below  the 
breath. 

"If  you  heard  it  at  all,"  said  Carmichael, 
"which  I  don't  for  a  moment  believe,  you  heard  it 
in  the  strictly  Biblical  sense.  You  can't  be  expected 
to  know  what  that  is,  Chaucer,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  it  means  lost  and  done  for,  like  our  noble 
selves.  And  it  was  probably  applied  to  us,  if 
there's  the  least  truth  in  what  you  say." 

"Truth!"  he  began,  but  was  not  suffered  to  add 
another  word. 

"Shut  up,"  snarled  Carmichael.  "Can't  you 
hear  them  coming?" 

And  the  tramp  of  the  shooting-boots,  which  Dr. 
Methuen  was  still  new  chum  enough  to  wear,  fol- 
lowed by  the  chaplain's  lighter  step,  drew  noisily 
nearer  upon  the  unseen  part  of  the  veranda  that 
encircled  the  whole  house. 

"Stand  up,  you  cripples!"  cried  Carmichael  over 
his  shoulder,  in  a  stage  whisper.  And  they  all 
came  to  their  feet  as  the  two  ecclesiastics  appeared 
behind  the  table  at  the  open  end  of  the  tabernacle. 

Carmichael  felt  inclined  to  disperse  the  congre- 
gation on  the  spot. 

177 


Stingaree 

There  was  the  Bishop  still  in  his  gaiters  and  his 
yellow  dust-coat;  even  the  chaplain  had  not  taken 
the  trouble  to  don  his  surplice.  So  anything  was 
good  enough  for  Mulfera !  Carmichael  had 
lunged  forward  with  a  jutting  jaw  when  an  author- 
itative voice  rang  out  across  the  table. 

"Sit  down!" 

The  Bishop  had  not  opened  his  hairy  mouth.  It 
was  the  smart  young  chaplain  who  spoke.  And  all 
obeyed  except  Carmichael, 

"I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon,"  he  was  begin- 
ning, with  sarcastic  emphasis,  when  the  manager 
of  Mulfera  was  cut  as  short  as  he  was  himself  in 
the  habit  of  cutting  his  inferiors. 

"If  you  will  kindly  sit  down,"  cried  the  chaplain, 
"like  everybody  else,  I  shall  at  once  explain  the 
apparent  irregularity  upon  which  you  were  doubt- 
less about  to  comment." 

Carmichael  glowered  through  his  glasses  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  then  resumed  his  seat  with  a 
shrug  and  a  murmur,  happily  inaudible  to  all  but 
his  two  immediate  neighbors. 

"On  his  way  here  this  morning,"  the  chaplain 
went  on,  "his  lordship  met  with  a  misadventure 
from  which  he  has  not  yet  recovered  sufficiently  to 
address  you  as  he  fully  hoped  and  intended  to  do 
to-day."   At  this  all  eyes  sped  to  the  Bishop,  who 

178 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

stood  certainly  in  a  drooping  attitude  at  the  chap- 
lain's side,  his  episcopal  hands  behind  his  back. 
"Something  happened,"  the  glib  spokesman  con- 
tinued with  stern  eyes,  "something  that  you  do  not 
often  hear  of  in  these  days.  His  lordship  was  ac- 
costed, beset,  and,  like  the  poor  man  in  the  Scrip- 
tures, despitefully  entreated,  not  many  miles 
beyond  your  own  boundary,  by  a  pair  of  armed 
ruffians!" 

"Stuck  up!"  cried  one  or  two,  and  "Bush- 
rangers!" one  or  two  more. 

"I  thank  you  for  both  words,"  said  the  chap- 
lain, bowing.  "He  was  stuck  up  by  the  bushranger 
who  is  once  more  abroad  in  the  land.  Really,  Mr. 
Carmichael " 

But  the  manager  of  Mulfera  rose  to  his  full 
height,  and,  leaning  back  to  get  the  speaker  into 
focus,  stuck  his  arms  akimbo  in  a  w^ay  that  he  had 
in  his  most  aggressive  moments. 

"And  what  were  you  doing?"  he  demanded 
fiercely  of  the  chaplain. 

"It  was  I  who  stuck  him  up,"  answered  the  soi- 
disant  chaplain,  whipping  a  single  glass  into  his 
eye  to  meet  the  double  ones.  "My  name  Is 
Stingaree !" 

And  In  the  Instant's  hush  which  followed  he 
plucked  a  revolver  from  his  breast,  while  the  hands 

179 


Stingaree 

of  the  sham  bishop  shot  out  from  behind  his  back, 
with  one  in  each. 

The  scene  of  the  instant  after  that  defies  ordi- 
nary description.  It  was  made  the  more  hideous 
by  the  frightful  imprecations  of  Carmichael,  and 
the  short,  sharp  threat  of  Stingaree  to  shoot  him 
dead  unless  he  instantly  sat  down.  Carmichael 
bade  him  do  so  with  a  gallant  oath,  at  which  the 
men  immediately  behind  him  joined  with  his  two 
companions  in  pulling  him  back  into  his  chair  and 
there  holding  him  by  main  force.  Thereafter  the 
manager  appeared  to  realize  the  futility  of  resist- 
ance, and  was  unhanded  on  his  undertaking  to  sit 
quiet,  which  he  did  with  the  exception  of  one 
speech  to  those  behind. 

"If  any  of  you  happen  to  be  armed,"  he  shouted 
over  his  shoulder,  "shoot  him  down  like  a  dog. 
But  if  you're  all  as  fairly  had  as  I  am,  let's  hear 
what  the  beggar's  got  to  say." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Carmichael,"  said  the  bush- 
ranger, still  from  the  far  side  of  the  table,  as  a 
comparative  silence  fell  at  last.  "You  are  a  man 
after  my  own  heart,  sir,  and  I  would  as  lief  have 
you  on  my  side  as  the  simple  ruffian  on  my  right. 
Not  a  bad  bishop  to  look  at,"  continued  Stingaree, 
with  a  jerk  of  the  head  toward  his  mate  with  the 
two  revolvers.     "But  if  I  had  let  him  open  his 

1 80 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

mouth!  Now,  if  I'd  had  you,  Mr.  Carmichael — 
but  I  have  my  doubts  about  your  vocabulary,  too  !" 

The  point  appealed  to  all  present,  and  there  was 
a  laugh,  in  which,  however,  Carmichael  did  not 
join. 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  come  here  simply  to  give 
us  a  funny  entertainment,"  said  he.  "I  happen  to 
be  the  boss,  or  have  been  hitherto,  and  if  you  will 
condescend  to  tell  me  what  you  want  I  shall  con- 
sider whether  it  is  worth  while  to  supply  you  or  to 
be  shot  by  you.  I  shall  be  sorry  to  meet  my  death 
at  the  hands  of  a  thieving  blackguard,  but  one 
can't  pick  and  choose  in  that  matter.  Before  it 
comes  to  choosing,  however,  is  it  any  good  asking 
what  you've  done  with  the  real  bishop  and  the  real 
chaplain?     If  you've  murdered  them,  as  I " 

Stingaree  had  hstened  thus  far  with  more  than 
patience,  in  fact  with  something  akin  to  approval, 
to  the  captive  who  was  still  his  master  with  the 
tongue.  With  all  his  villainy,  the  bushranger  was 
,  man  enough  to  appreciate  another  man  when  he 
met  him;  but  Carmichael's  last  word  flicked  him 
on  a  bare  nerve. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  talk  to  me  about  murder," 
he  rapped  out.  "I've  never  committed  one  yet,  but 
you're  going  the  right  way  to  make  me  begin  !  As 
for  Bishop  Methuen,  I  have  more  respect  for  him 

i8i 


Stingaree 

than  for  any  man  in  Australia ;  but  his  horse  was 
worth  two  of  my  mate's,  and  that's  all  I  troubled 
him  for.  I  didn't  even  tie  him  up  as  I  would  any 
other  man.  We  just  relieved  the  two  of  them  of 
their  boots  and  clothes,  which  was  quite  as  good  as 
tying  up,  with  your  roads  as  red-hot  as  they  are — 
though  my  mate  here  doesn't  agree  with  me." 

The  man  with  the  beard  very  emphatically 
shook  a  matted  head,  now  relieved  of  the  stolen 
helmet,  and  observed  that  the  quicker  they  were 
the  better  it  would  be.  He  was  as  taciturn  a  bush- 
ranger as  he  had  been  a  bishop,  but  Stingareee  was 
perfectly  right.  Even  these  few  v/ords  v/ould  have 
destroyed  all  chance  of  illusion  in  the  case  of  his 
mate. 

"The  very  clothes,  vvhich  become  us  so  v>-ell," 
continued  the  prince  of  personators,  who  happened 
to  be  without  hair  upon  his  face  at  this  period,  and 
who  looked  every  inch  his  part;  "their  very  boots, 
we  have  only  borrowed !  I  will  tell  you  presently 
where  we  dropped  the  rest  of  their  kit.  We  left 
them  a  suit  of  pyjamas  apiece,  and  not  another 
stitch,  and  we  blindfolded  and  drove  'em  into  the 
scrub  as  a  last  precaution.  But  before  we  go  I  shall 
also  tell  you  where  a  search-party  is  likely  to  pick 
up  their  tracks.  Meanwhile  you  will  all  stay  ex- 
actly where  you  are,  with  the  exception  of  the  store- 

182 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

keeper,  who  will  kindly  accompany  me  to  the  store. 
I  shall  naturally  require  to  see  the  inside  of  the 
safe,  but  otherwise  our  wants  are  very  simple." 

The  outlaw  ceased.  There  was  no  word  in 
answer;  a  curious  hush  had  fallen  on  the  captive 
congregation. 

"If  there  is  a  store-keeper,"  suggested  Stingaree, 
"he'd  better  stand  up." 

But  the  accomplished  Chaucer  sat  stark  and 
staring. 

"Up  with  you,"  whispered  Carmichael,  in  terri- 
ble tones,  "or  we're  done!" 

And  even  as  the  book-keeper  rose  tremulously 
to  his  feet,  a  strange  and  stealthy  figure,  the  cyno- 
sure of  all  eyes  but  the  bushrangers'  for  a  long 
minute,  reached  the  open  end  of  the  veranda;  and 
with  a  final  spring,  a  tall  man  In  silk  pyjamas,  his 
gray  beard  flying  over  cither  shoulder,  hurled  him- 
self upon  both  bushrangers  at  once.  With  out- 
spread fingers  he  clutched  the  scruff  of  each  neck  at 
the  self-same  second,  crash  came  the  two  heads 
together,  and  over  went  the  table  with  the  three 
men  over  It. 

Shots  were  fired  in  the  struggle  on  the  ground, 
happily  without  effect.  Stingaree  had  his  shooting 
hand  mangled  by  one  blow  with  a  chair  whirled 
from  a  height.     Carmichael  got  his  heel  with  a 

183 


Stingaree 


venomous  stamp  upon  the  neck  of  Howie ;  and,  in 
fewer  seconds  than  it  would  take  to  write  their 
names,  the  rascals  were  defeated  and  disarmed. 
Howie  had  his  neck  half  broken,  and  his  face  was 
darkening  before  Carmichael  could  be  induced  to 
lift  his  foot. 

"The  cockroach !"  bawled  the  manager,  drunk 
with  battle.     "I'd  hoof  his  soul  out  for  two  pins  !" 

A  moment  later  he  was  groping  for  his  glasses, 
which  had  slipped  and  fallen  from  his  perspiring 
nose,  and  making  use  of  such  expressions  withal 
as  to  compel  a  panting  protest  from  the  tall  man 
in  the  silken  stripes. 

"My  name  is  Methuen,"  said  he.  "I  know  it's 
a  special  moment,  but — do  you  mind?" 

Carmichael  found  his  glasses  at  that  instant, 
adjusted  them,  stood  up,  and  leant  back  to  view  the 
Bishop;  and  his  next  words  were  the  apology  of 
the  gentleman  he  should  have  been. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  cried  the  other,  "I  quite  un- 
derstand. What  are  they  doing  with  the  ruffians? 
Have  you  any  handcuffs?  Is  it  far  to  the  nearest 
police  barracks?" 

But  the  next  act  of  this  moving  melodrama  was 
not  the  least  characteristic  of  the  chief  perform- 
ance; for  when  Stingaree  and  partner  had  been 
not  only  handcuffed  but  lashed  hand  and  foot,  and 

18.1 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

incarcerated  in  separate  log-huts,  with  a  guard 
apiece;  and  when  a  mounted  messenger  had  been 
despatched  to  the  barracks  at  Clare  Corner,  and 
the  remnant  raised  a  cheer  for  Bishop  Methuen; 
it  was  then  that  the  fine  fellow  showed  them  the 
still  finer  stuff  of  which  he  was  also  made.  He 
invited  all  present  to  step  back  for  a  few  minutes 
into  the  place  of  worship  which  had  been  so  charm- 
ingly prepared,  so  scandalously  misused,  and  where 
he  hoped  to  see  them  all  yet  again  in  the  evening, 
if  it  would  not  bore  them  to  give  him  a  further  and 
more  formal  hearing  then. 

"I  won't  keep  them  five  minutes  now,"  he  whis- 
pered to  Carmichael,  as  the  men  went  ahead  to 
pick  up  the  chairs  and  take  their  places,  while  the 
Bishop  hobbled  after,  still  in  his  pyjamas,  and  with 
terribly  inflamed  and  swollen  feet.  "And  then," 
he  added,  "I  must  ask  you  to  send  a  buggy  at  once 
for  my  poor  chaplain.  He  did  his  gallant  best, 
poor  fellow,  but  I  had  to  leave  him  fallen  by  the 
way.  I  am  an  old  miler,  you  know;  it  came  easier 
to  me;  but  the  cinder-path  and  running-shoes  are 
a  different  story  from  hot  sand  and  naked  feet! 
And  now,  if  you  please,  I  will  strike  one  little  blow 
while  our  hearts  are  still  warm." 

But  how  shrewdly  he  struck  it,  how  straight  from 
the  shoulder,  how  sim.ply,  how  honestly,  there  is 

185 


Stingaree 

perhaps  no  need  to  tell  even  those  who  have  no 
previous  knowledge  of  back-block  Bishop  Methuen 
and  his  manly  ways. 

What  afterward  happened  to  Stingaree  is  an- 
other matter,  to  be  set  forth  faithfully  in  the  sequel. 
This  is  the  story  of  the  Purification  of  Mulfera 
Station,  N.S.W.,  in  which  the  bushrangers  played 
but  an  indirect  and  a  most  inglorious  part. 

The  Bishop  and  his  chaplain  (a  good  man  of 
no  present  account)  stayed  to  see  the  police  arrive 
that  night,  and  the  romantic  ruffians  taken  thence 
next  morning  in  unromantic  bonds.  Compara- 
tively little  attention  was  paid  to  their  departure — 
partly  on  account  of  the  truculent  attitude  of  the 
police — partly  because  the  Episcopal  pair  were 
making  an  equally  early  start  in  another  direction. 
No  one  accompanied  the  armed  men  and  the 
bound.  But  every  man  on  the  place,  from  home- 
stead, men's  hut,  rabbiter's  tent,  and  boundary- 
rider's  camp — every  single  man  who  could  be  mus- 
tered for  the  nonce  had  a  horse  run  up  for  him — 
escorted  Dr.  Methuen  In  close  cavalcade  to  the 
Mulfera  boundary,  where  the  final  cheering  took 
place,  led  by  Carmichael,  who,  of  course,  was  font 
and  origin  of  the  display.  And  Carmichael  rode 
by  himself  on  the  way  back ;  he  had  been  much  with 
the  Bishop  during  his  lordship's  stay;  and  he  was 

1 86 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

too  morose  for  profanity  during  the  remainder  of 
that  day. 

But  it  was  no  better  when  the  manager's  mood 
lifted,  and  the  hfe  on  Mulfera  shpped  back  into 
the  old  bhnding  and  perspiring  groove. 

Then  one  night,  a  night  of  the  very  week  thus 
sensationally  begun,  the  ingenious  Chaucer  began 
one  of  the  old,  old  stories,  on  the  moonlit  veranda, 
and  Carmichael  stopped  him  while  that  particular 
old  story  was  still  quite  young  in  the  telling.  There 
was  an  awkward  pause  until  Carmichael  laughed. 

"I  don't  care  twopence  what  you  fellows  think 
of  me,"  said  he,  "and  never  did.  I  saw  a  lot  of  the 
Bishop,"  he  went  on,  less  aggressively,  after  a 
pause. 

"So  we  saw,"  assented  Smart. 

"You  bet!"  added  Chaucer. 

For  they  were  two  to  one. 

"He  ran  the  mile  for  Oxford,"  continued  Car- 
michael. "Two  years  he  ran  it — and  won  both 
times.  You  may  not  appreciate  quite  what  that 
means." 

And,  with  a  patience  foreign  to  his  character  as 
they  knew  it,  Carmichael  proceeded  to  explain. 

"But,"  he  added,  "that  was  nothing  to  his  per- 
formance last  Sunday,  in  getting  here  from  beyond 
the   boundary   in   the   time   he    did   it   in — bare- 

187 


Stingaree 


foot !  It  would  have  been  good  enough  in  shoes. 
But  don't  you  forget  his  feet.  I  can  see  them — 
and  feel  them — still." 

"Oh,  he's  a  grand  chap,"  the  overseer  allowed. 

"We  never  said  he  wasn't,"  his  ally  chimed  in. 

Carmichael  took  no  notice  of  a  tone  which  the 
youth  with  the  putty  face  had  never  employed 
toward  him  before. 

"He  was  also  in  his  school  eleven,"  continued 
Carmichael,  still  in  a  reflective  fashion. 

"Was  it  a  public  school?"  inquired  Smart. 

"Yes." 

"The  public  school?"  added  Chaucer. 

"Not  mine,  if  that's  what  you  mean,"  returned 
Carmichael,  with  just  a  touch  of  his  earlier  man- 
ner. "But — he  knew  my  old  Head  Master — he 
was  quite  a  pal  of  the  dear  Old  Man! 
We  had  such  lots  in  common,"  added  the  manager, 
more  to  himself  than  to  the  other  two. 

The  overseer's  comment  is  of  no  consequence. 
What  the  book-keeper  was  emboldened  to  add  mat- 
ters even  less.  Suffice  it  that  between  them  they 
brought  the  old  Carmichael  to  his  feet,  his  glasses 
flaming  in  the  moonshine,  his  body  thrown  pugi- 
listically  backward,  his  jaw  jutting  like  a  crag — the 
old  Carmichael  in  deed — but  not  in  word. 

"I  told  you  just  now  I  didn't  care  twopence  what 
i88 


The  Purification  of  Mulfera 

either  of  you  thought  of  me,"  he  roared,  "though 
there  wasn't  the  least  necessity  to  tell  you,  because 
you  knew!  So  1  needn't  repeat  myself;  but  just 
listen  a  moment,  and  try  not  to  be  greater  fools 
than  God  made  you.  You  saw  a  real  man  last  Sun- 
day, and  so  did  I.  I  had  almost  forgotten  what 
they  were  like — that  quality.  Well,  we  had  a  lot 
of  talk,  and  he  told  me  what  they  are  doing  on 
some  of  the  other  stations.  They  are  holding 
services,  something  like  what  he  held  here,  every 
Sunday  night  for  themselves.  Now,  it  isn't  in 
human  nature  to  fly  from  one  extreme  to  the  other; 
but  we  are  going  to  have  a  try  to  keep  up  our  Sun- 
day end  with  the  other  stations ;  at  least  I  am,  and 
you  two  are  going  to  back  me  up." 

He  paused.    Not  a  syllable  from  the  pair. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  thundered  Carmichael,  as 
he  had  thundered  in  the  dormitory  at  school,  now 
after  twenty  years  in  the  same  good  cause  once 
more.  "Whether  you  like  it  or  not,  you  fellows 
are  gomg  to  back  me  up  !" 

And  Carmichael  was  a  mighty  man,  whose 
influence  was  not  to  be  withstood. 


189 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

IT  was  eight  o'clock  and  Monday  morning  when 
the  romantic  rascals  were  led  away  in  unro- 
mantic  bonds.  Their  arms  were  bound  to  their 
bodies,  their  feet  lashed  to  the  stirrup-irons;  they 
sat  like  packs  upon  quiet  station  horses,  carefully 
chosen  for  the  nonce;  they  were  tethered  to  a 
mounted  policeman  apiece,  each  with  leading-rein 
buckled  to  his  left  wrist  and  Government  revolver 
in  his  right  hand.  Behind  the  quartette  rode  the 
officer  in  command,  superbly  mounted,  watching 
ever  all  four  with  a  third  revolver  ready  cocked. 
It  seemed  a  small  and  yet  an  ample  escort  for  the 
two  bound  men. 

But  Stingaree  was  by  no  means  in  that  state  of 
Napoleonic  despair  which  his  bent  back  and  lower- 
ing countenance  were  intended  to  convey.  He  had 
not  uttered  a  word  since  the  arrival  of  the  police, 
whom  he  had  suffered  to  lift  him  on  horseback,  as 
he  now  sat,  without  raising  his  morose  eyes  once. 
Howie,  on  the  other  hand,  had  offered  a  good  deal 
of  futile  opposition,  cursing  his  captors  as  the  fit 
moved  him,  and  once  struggling  so  insanely  in  his 

190 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

bonds  as  to  earn  a  tap  from  the  wrong  end  of  a 
revolver  and  a  bloody  face  for  his  pains.  Stingaree 
glowered  in  deep  delight.  His  mate's  part  was  as 
well  acted  as  his  own;  but  it  was  he  who  had  con- 
ceived them  both,  and  expounded  them  in  countless 
camps  against  some  such  extremity  as  this.  The 
result  was  in  ideal  accordance  with  his  calculations. 
The  man  who  gave  the  trouble  was  the  man  to 
watch.  And  Stingaree,  chin  on  chest,  was  left  in 
peace  to  evolve  a  way  of  escape. 

The  chances  were  all  adverse;  he  had  never 
been  less  sanguine  in  his  life.  Not  that  Stingaree 
had  much  opinion  of  the  police;  he  had  slipped 
through  their  hands  too  often;  but  it  was  an  unfor- 
tunate circumstance  that  two  of  the  present  trir 
were  among  those  whom  he  had  eluded  most  re- 
cently, and  who  therefore  would  be  least  likely  to 
give  him  another  chance.  A  lightning  student  Df 
his  kind,  hf,  based  his  only  hope  upon  an  accurate 
estimate  of  these  men,  and  applied  his  whole  rrjnd 
to  the  triple  task.  But  it  was  a  single  task  almost 
from  the  first ;  for  the  policeman  in  charge  of  him 
was  none  other  than  his  credulous  old  friend,  Ser- 
geant Cameron  from  Clear  Corner;  and  Howie's 
custodian,  a  young  trooper  run  from,  the  same 
mould  as  Constable  Tyler  and  many  a  hundred 
more,   in  whom  a  thick  skull  cancelled  a   stout 

191 


btingaree 

heart.  Both  were  brave  men;  neither  was  really 
to  be  feared.  But  the  man  behind  upon  the  thor- 
oughbred, the  man  in  front,  the  man  now  on  this 
side  and  now  on  that,  with  his  braying  laugh  and 
his  vindictive  voice — triumphant  as  though  he  had 
taken  the  bushrangers  himself,  and  a  blatant  bully 
in  his  triumph — was  none  other  than  the  formida- 
ble Superintendent  whose  undying  animosity  the 
bushrangers  had  earned  by  the  two  escapades  asso- 
ciated with  his  name. 

Yet  the  outlaw  never  flattered  him  with  word  or 
look,  never  lifted  chin  from  chest,  never  raised  an 
eye  or  opened  his  mouth  until  Howie's  knock  on 
the  head  caused  him  to  curse  his  mate  for  a  fool 
who  deserved  all  he  got.  The  thoroughbred  was 
caracoling  on  his  other  side  in  an  instant. 

"You  ain't  one,  are  you?"  cried  the  taunting 
tongue  of  Superintendent  Cairns.  "Not  much  fool 
about  Stingaree !" 

The  time  had  come  for  a  reply. 

"So  I  thought  until  yesterday,"  sighed  the  bush- 
ranger,   "But  now  I'm  not  so  sure." 

"Not  so  sure,  eh?  You  were  sure  enough  last 
time  we  met,  my  beauty !" 

"Yes !  I  had  some  conceit  of  myself  then,"  said 
Stingaree,  with  another  of  his  convincing  sighs. 

"To  say  nothing  of  when  you  guyed  me,  damn 
192 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

you !"  added  the  Superintendent,  below  his  breath 
and  through  his  teeth. 

"Well,"  replied  the  outlaw,  "you've  got  your 
revenge.    I  must  expect  you  to  rub  it  in." 

"My  fine  friend,"  rejoined  Cairns,  "you  may 
expect  worse  than  that,  and  still  you  won't  be 
disappointed." 

Stingaree  made  no  reply;  and  it  would  have 
taken  a  very  shrewd  eye  to  have  read  deeper  than 
the  depth  of  sullen  despair  expressed  in  every  inch 
of  his  bound  body  and  every  furrow  of  his  down- 
cast face.  Even  the  vindictive  Cairns  ceased  for 
a  time  to  crow  over  so  abject  an  adversary 
In  so  bitter  an  hour.  Meanwhile,  the  five  horses 
streamed  slowly  through  the  high  lights  and  heavy 
shadows  of  a  winding  avenue  of  scrub.  It  was  like 
a  hot-house  In  the  dense,  low  trees :  not  a  wander- 
ing wind,  not  a  waking  bird;  but  five  faces  that 
dripped  steadily  in  the  shade,  and  all  but  caught 
fire  in  the  sun.  Ahead  rode  Howie,  dazed  and 
bleeding,  with  his  callous  young  constable;  the 
sergeant  and  his  chief,  with  Stingaree  between 
them,  now  brought  up  the  rear.  By  degrees  Sting- 
aree raised  his  chin  a  little,  but  still  looked  neither 
right  nor  left. 

"Cheer  up !"  cried  the  chief,  with  soothing 
Irony. 

193 


Stingaree 

"I  feel  the  heat,"  said  the  bound  man,  uncom- 
plainingly. "And  it  was  just  about  here  it 
happened. 

"What  happened?" 

"We  overtook  the  Church  militant  here  on 
earth,"  rejoined  the  bushranger,  with  rueful  ir- 
reverence. 

"Well,  you  ran  against  a  snag  that  time,  Mr. 
Sanguinary  Stingaree  I" 

"I  couldn't  resist  turning  Howie  into  the  Bishop 
and  making  myself  his  mouthpiece.  I  daren't  let 
him  open  his  lips  !  It  wasn't  the  offertory  that  was 
worth  having;  it  was  the  fun  of  rounding  up  that 
congregation  on  the  homestead  veranda,  and  never 
letting  them  spot  a  thing  till  we'd  showed  our  guns. 
There  hadn't  been  a  hitch,  and  never  would  have 
been  if  that  old  Bishop  hadn't  run  all  those  miles 
barefoot  over  hot  sand  and  taken  us  unawares." 

Made  with  wry  humor  and  a  philosophic  candor, 
alike  germane  to  his  predicament,  these  remarks 
seemed  natural  enough  to  one  knowing  little  of 
Stingaree.  They  seemed  just  the  sort  of  things 
that  Stingaree  would  say.  The  effect,  however, 
was  rather  to  glorify  Bishop  Methuen  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Superintendent  Cairns,  who  strove  to 
reverse  it  with  some  dexterity. 

"You  certainly  ran  against  a  snag,"  he  repeated, 
194 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

"and  now  your  mate's  run  against  another."  He 
gave  the  butt  of  his  ready  pistol  a  significant  tap. 
"But  I'm  the  worst  snag  that  ever  either  of  you 
struck,"  he  went  on  in  his  vainglory.  "Make  no 
mistake  about  that.  And  the  worst  day's  work 
that  ever  you  did  in  your  life,  Mr.  Sanguinary 
Stingaree,  was  when  you  dared  to  play  at  being 
little  crooked  Cairns." 

Stingaree  took  a  first  good  look  at  his  man. 
After  all  he  was  not  so  crooked  on  horseback  as 
he  had  seemed  on  foot  at  dusk  in  the  Victorian 
bush;  his  hump  was  even  less  pronounced  than 
Stingaree  himself  had  made  it  on  Rosanna;  it 
looked  more  like  a  ridge  of  extra  muscle  across  a 
pair  of  abnormally  broad  and  powerful  shoulders. 
There  was  the  absence  of  neck  which  this  deform- 
ity suggests;  there  was  a  great  head  lighted  by 
flashing  and  Indignant  eyes,  but  mounted  only  on 
its  mighty  chin.  The  bushranger  was  conceited 
enough  to  find  In  the  flesh  a  coarser  and  more  com- 
mon tj'pe  than  that  created  by  himself  for  the 
honor  of  the  road.  But  this  did  not  make  the  real 
Superintendent  a  less  formidable  foe. 

"The  most  poetic  justice  !"  murmured  Stingaree, 
and  resumed  in  an  instant  his  apathetic  pose. 

"It  serves  you  jolly  well  right,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  the  Superintendent  snarled.    "You've  your- 

195 


Stingaree 

self  and  your  own  mighty  cheek  to  thank  for  takhig 
me  out  of  my  shell  and  putting  me  on  your  tracks 
in  earnest.  But  it  was  high  time  they  knew  the  cut 
of  my  jib  up  here;  the  fools  won't  forget  me  again 
in  a  hurry.  And  you,  you  devil,  you  sha'n't  forget 
me  till  your  dying  day!" 

On  Stingaree's  off-side  Sergeant  Cameron  was 
also  hanging  an  insulted  head.  But  the  bushranger 
laughed  softly  in  his  chest. 

"Someone  has  got  to  do  your  dirty  work,"  said 
he.  "I  did  it  that  time,  and  the  Bishop  has  done  It 
now;  but  you  shouldn't  blame  me  for  helping  your 
fellows  to  bring  a  murderer  to  justice." 

"You  guyed  me,"  said  Cairns  through  his  teeth. 
"I  heard  all  about  it.  You  guyed  me,  blight  your 
soul!" 

Stingaree  felt  that  he  was  missing  a  strong  face 
finely  convulsed  with  passion — as  indeed  he  was. 
But  he  had  already  committed  the  indiscretion  of  a 
repartee,  which  was  scarcely  consistent  with  an 
attitude  of  extreme  despair.  A  downcast  silence 
seemed  the  samest  policy  after  all. 

"It  used  to  be  forty  miles  to  the  Corner,"  he 
murmured,  after  a  time.  "We  can't  have  come 
more  than  ten." 

"Not  so  much,"  snapped  the  Superintendent. 

"Going  to  stop  for  feed  at  Mazeppa  Station?" 
196 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

"That's  my  business." 

"It's  a  long  day  for  three  of  you,  in  this  heat, 
with  two  of  us." 

"The  time  won't  hang  heavy  on  our  hands." 

"Not  heavy  enough,  I  should  have  thought.  I 
wonder  you  didn't  bring  some  of  the  boys  from 
Mulfera  along  with  you." 

Superintendent  Cairns  brayed  his  high,  harsh 
laugh. 

"Yes,  you  wonder,  and  so  did  they,"  said  he. 
"But  I  know  a  bit  too  much.  There'll  always  be 
sympathy  among  scum  like  them  for  thicker  scum 
like  you!" 

"You're  too  suspicious,"  said  Stingaree,  mildly. 
"But  I  was  thinking  of  the  Bishop  and  the  boss." 

"They've  gone  their  own  way,"  growled  Cairns, 
"and  it's  just  as  well  it  wasn't  our  way.  I'd  have 
stood  no  interference  from  them!" 

That  had  been  his  attitude  on  the  station. 
Stingaree  had  heard  of  his  rudeness  to  those  to 
whom  the  whole  credit  of  the  capture  belonged; 
the  man  revealed  his  character  as  freely  as  an  angry 
child;  and,  indeed,  a  childish  character  it  was. 
Arrogance  was  its  strength  and  weakness:  a  sug- 
gestion had  only  to  be  made  to  call  down  either  the 
insolence  of  office  or  the  malice  of  denial  for 
denial's  sake. 

197 


Stingaree 

"I  wish  you'd  stop  a  bit  at  Mazeppa,"  whined 
Stingaree,  drooping  like  a  candle  in  the  heat. 

The  station  roofs  gleamed  through  the  trees  far 
off  the  track. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I'm  feeling  sick." 

"Gammon!  You've  got  some  friends  there;  on 
you  push!" 

"But  you  will  camp  somewhere  in  the  heat  of 
the  day?" 

"I'll  do  as  I  think  fit.  I  sha'n't  consult  you,  my 
line  friend," 

Stingaree  drooped  and  nodded,  lower  and 
lower;  then  recovered  himself  with  a  jerk,  like  one 
battling  against  sleep.  The  party  pushed  on  for 
another  hour.  The  heat  was  terrible;  the  bound 
men  endured  torments  in  their  bonds.  But  the 
nature  of  the  Superintendent,  deformed  like  his 
body,  declared  itself  duly  at  every  turn,  and  the 
more  one  prisoner  groaned  and  the  other  blas- 
phemed, the  greater  the  zest  and  obduracy  of  the 
driving  force  behind  them. 

Noon  passed;  the  scanty  shadows  lengthened; 
and  Howie  gave  more  trouble  of  an  insensate  sort. 
They  reined  up,  and  lashed  him  tighter;  he  had 
actually  loosened  his  cords.  But  Stingaree  seemed 
past   remonstrance   with   friend   or   foe,   and   his 

198 


Stingaree  tDjiplecl  imt  i.f  the  saddle. 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

bound  body  swayed  from  side  to  side  as  the  little 
cavalcade  went  on  at  a  canter  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

He  was  leading  now  with  the  kindly  sergeant, 
and  his  mind  had  never  been  more  alert.  Behind 
them  thundered  the  recalcitrant  Howie  with  con- 
stable and  Superintendent  on  either  side.  They 
were  midway  between  Mazeppa  and  Clear  Cor- 
ner, or  some  fifteen  miles  from  either  haunt  of 
men.  Stingaree  pulled  himself  upright  in  the  sad- 
dle as  by  a  superhuman  effort,  and  shook  off  the 
helping  hand  that  held  him  by  one  elbow. 

He  was  about  to  do  a  thing  at  which  even  his 
courage  quailed,  and  he  longed  for  the  use  of  his 
right  arm.  It  was  not  absolutely  bound;  the  hand 
and  wrist  had  been  badly  hurt  in  the  Sunday's  fray 
— so  badly  that  it  had  been  easy  to  sham  a  frac- 
ture, and  have  hand  and  wrist  in  splints  before  the 
arrival  of  the  police.  They  still  hung  before  him 
in  a  sling,  his  good  right  hand  and  fore-arm,  stiff 
and  sore  enough,  yet  strong  and  ready  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  when  the  moment  came.  It  had  not 
come,  and  was  not  coming  for  a  long  time,  when 
Stingaree  set  his  teeth,  lurched  either  way — and 
toppled  out  of  the  saddle  ir  .ne  path  of  the  canter- 
ing hoofs.  His  lashed  feet  held  him  in  the  stir- 
rups; the  off  stirrup-leather  had  come  over  with 

199 


Stingaree 

his  weight;  and  there  at  his  horse's  hoofs,  kicked 
and  trampled  and  smothered  with  blood  and  dust, 
he  dragged  like  an  anchor,  without  sign  of  life. 

And  it  was  worse  even  than  it  looked,  for  the 
life  never  left  him  for  an  instant,  nor  ever  for  an 
instant  did  he  fail  to  behave  as  though  It  had. 
Minutes  later,  when  they  had  stopped  his  horse, 
and  cut  him  down  from  the  stirrups,  and  carried 
him  into  the  shade  of  a  hop-bush  off  the  track,  and 
when  Stingaree  dared  to  open  his  eyes,  he  was 
nearer  closing  them  perforce,  and  the  scene  swam 
before  him  with  superfluous  realism. 

Cairns  and  Cameron,  dismounted  (while  the 
trooper  sat  aloof  with  Howie  In  the  saddle),  were 
at  high  words  about  their  prostrate  prisoner.  Not 
a  syllable  was  lost  on  Stingaree. 

"You  may  put  him  across  the  horse  yourself," 
said  the  sergeant.  "I  won't  have  a  hand  In  It.  But 
make  sure  you  haven't  killed  him  as  It  is — trav- 
elling a  sick  man  like  that." 

"Killed  him?  He's  got  his  eyes  open!"  cried 
Cairns  in  savage  triumph.  Stingaree  lay  blinking 
at  the  sky.  "Do  you  still  refuse  to  do  your 
duty?" 

"Cruelty  to  animals  is  no  duty  of  mine,"  de- 
clared the  sergeant :  "let  alone  my  fellowmen,  bush- 
rangers or  no  bushrangers." 

200 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

"And  you?"  thundered  Cairns  at  the  mounted 
constable. 

"I'm  with  the  sergeant,"  said  he.  "He's  had 
enough." 

"Right!"  cried  the  Superintendent,  producing  a 
note-book  and  scribbling  venomously.  "You  both 
refuse!  You  will  hear  more  of  this;  meanwhile, 
sergeant,  I  should  like  to  know  what  your  superior 
wisdom  may  be  pleased  to  suggest." 

"Send  a  cart  back  for  him,"  said  Cameron.  "It's 
the  only  way  he's  fit  to  travel." 

Stingaree  sought  to  prop  himself  upon  the  elbow 
of  the  splintered  wrist  and  hand. 

"There  are  no  more  bones  broken  that  I  know 
of,"  said  he,  faintly.  "But  I  felt  bad  before,  and 
now  I  feel  worse." 

"He  looks  it,  too,"  observed  the  sergeant,  as 
Stingaree,  ghastly  enough  beneath  his  blood  and 
dust,  rolled  over  on  his  back  once  more,  and  lay 
effectively  with  closed  eyes.  Even  the  Superin- 
tendent was  impressed. 

"Then  what's  to  be  done  with  him?"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  an  oath.     "What's  to  be  done?" 

"If  you  ask  me,"  returned  Cameron,  "I  should 
make  him  comfortable  where  he  is;  after  all,  he's 
a  human  being,  and  done  no  murder,  that  we 
should  run  the  risk  of  murdering  him.    Leave  him 

20 1 


Stingaree 


to  me  while  you  two  push  on  with  his  mate;  then 
one  of  you  can  get  back  with  the  spring-cart  before 
sundown;  but  trust  me  to  look  after  him  till 
you  do." 

Stingaree  held  his  breath  where  he  lay.  His 
excitement  was  not  to  be  betrayed  by  the  opening 
of  an  eye.  And  yet  he  knew  that  the  Superin- 
tendent was  looking  the  sergeant  up  and  down, 
and  he  guessed  what  was  passing  through  that  sus- 
picious mind. 

"Trust  you  !"  rasped  the  dictatorial  voice  at  last. 
"That's  the  very  thing  I'm  not  Inclined  to  do,  Ser- 
geant Cameron." 

"Sir!" 

"Keep  your  temper,  sergeant.  I  don't  say  you'd 
let  him  go.  But  I've  got  to  remember  that  this 
man  has  twisted  you  round  his  finger  before  to-day, 
led  you  by  the  hand  like  a  blessed  old  child,  and 
passed  himself  off  for  me!  Look  at  the  fellow; 
look  at  me ;  and  ask  yourself  candidly  if  you're  the 
man  for  the  job.  But  don't  ask  me,  unless  you 
want  my  opinion  of  you  a  bit  plainer  still.  No; 
you  go  on  with  the  others.  The  two  of  you  can 
manage  Howie;  if  you  can't,  you  put  a  bullet 
through  him  !  This  is  my  man ;  and  I'm  his,  by  the 
hokey,  as  he'll  know  if  he  tries  any  of  his  tricks 
while  you're  gone!" 

202 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

Stingaree  did  not  move  a  muscle.  He  might 
have  been  dead;  and  in  his  disappointment  it  was 
the  easier  to  lie  as  though  he  were.  Really  bruised, 
really  battered,  really  faint  and  stiff  and  sore,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  bonds,  he  felt  himself  physically 
no  match  for  so  young  a  man — with  the  extra 
breadth  of  shoulder  and  the  extra  length  of  arm 
which  were  part  and  parcel  of  his  deformity. 
With  the  elderly  sergeant  he  might  have  had  a 
chance,  man  to  man,  one  arm  to  two;  but  with 
Superintendent  Cairns  his  only  weapons  were  his 
v/its.  He  lay  quite  still  and  reviewed  the  situation, 
as  it  was,  and  as  it  had  been.  In  the  very  moment 
of  his  downfall,  by  instinctive  presence  of  mind 
he  had  preserved  the  use  of  his  right  hand,  and 
that  was  a  still  unsuspected  asset  of  incalculable 
worth.  It  had  been  the  nucleus  of  all  his  plans; 
without  a  hand  he  must  have  resigned  himself  to 
the  inevitable  from  the  first.  Then  he  had  split 
up  the  party.  He  heard  the  sergeant  and  the  con- 
stable ride  off  with  Howie,  exactly  as  he  had  in- 
tended two  of  the  three  captors  to  do.  His  fall 
alone  introduced  the  element  of  luck.  It  might 
have  killed  or  maimed  him;  but  the  risk  had  been 
run  with  open  eyes.  Being  alive  and  whole,  he 
had  reduced  the  odds  from  three  against  two  to 
man  and  man;  and  the  difference  was  enormous, 

203 


Stingaree 

even  though  one  man  held  all  the  cards.  Against 
Howie  the  odds  were  heavier  than  ever,  but  Howie 
was  eliminated  from  present  calculations.  And  as 
Stingaree  made  them  with  the  upturned  face  of 
seeming  insensibility,  he  heard  a  nonchalant  step 
come  and  go,  but  knew  an  eye  was  on  him  all  the 
time,  and  never  opened  his  own  till  the  striking  of 
a  match  was  followed  by  the  smell  of  bush  tobacco. 

The  shadow  of  the  hop-bush  was  spreading  like 
spilt  ink,  and  for  the  moment  Stingaree  thought 
he  had  it  to  himself.  But  a  wreath  of  blue  smoke 
hovered  overhead;  and  when  he  got  to  his  elbow, 
and  glanced  behind,  there  sat  Cairns  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, filling  the  niche  his  body  made  in  the  actual 
green  bush,  a  swollen  wet  water-bag  at  his  feet, 
his  revolver  across  his  knees.  There  was  an  omi- 
nous click  even  as  Stingaree  screwed  round  where 
he  lay. 

"Give  me  a  drink!"  he  cried  at  sight  of  the 
humid  canvas  bag. 

"Why  should  I?"  asked  the  Superintendent, 
smoking  on. 

"Because  I  haven't  had  one  since  we  started — 
because  I'm  parched  with  thirst." 

"Parch  away!"  cried  the  creature  of  suspicion. 
"You  can't  help  yourself,  and  I  can't  help  you  with 
this  baby  to  nurse." 

204 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

And  he  fondled  the  cocked  revolver  In  his  hands. 

"Very  well!  Don't  give  me  one!"  exclaimed 
Stingaree,  and  dealt  the  moist  bag  a  kick  that  sent 
a  jet  of  cold  water  spurting  over  his  foot.  He  ex- 
pected to  be  kicked  himself  for  that;  he  was  only 
cursed,  the  bag  snatched  out  of  his  reach,  and 
deeply  drained  before  his  eyes. 

"I  was  going  to  give  you  some,"  said  Cairns, 
smacking  his  lips.  "Now  your  tongue  may  hang 
out  before  I  do." 

Stingaree  left  the  last  word  with  the  foe :  It  was 
part  of  his  preconceived  policy.  He  still  regretted 
his  solitary  retort,  but  not  for  a  moment  the  more 
petulant  act  which  he  had  just  committed.  His 
boots  had  been  removed  after  his  fall;  one  of  his 
socks  was  now  wet  through,  and  he  spent  the  next 
few  minutes  In  taking  It  off  with  the  other  foot. 
The  lengthy  process  seemed  to  afford  his  mind  a 
certain  pensive  entertainment.  It  was  a  shapely 
and  delicate  white  foot  that  lay  stripped  at  last — 
a  foot  that  Its  owner,  with  nothing  better  to  do, 
could  contemplate  with  legitimate  satisfaction. 
But  Superintendent  Cairns,  noting  his  prisoner's 
every  look,  and  putting  his  own  confident  interpre- 
tation on  them  all,  cursed  him  afresh  for  a  con- 
ceited pig,  and  filled  another  pipe,  with  the  re- 
volver for  an  instant  by  his  side. 

205 


Stingaree 

Stingaree  took  no  interest  in  his  proceed- 
ings; the  revolver  he  especially  ignored,  and  lay 
stretched  before  his  captor,  one  sock  off  and  one 
sock  on,  one  arm  in  splints  and  sling  and  the  other 
bound  to  his  ribs,  a  model  prisoner  whose  last 
thought  was  of  escape.  His  legs,  indeed,  were 
free ;  but  a  man  who  could  not  sit  on  a  horse  was 
not  the  man  to  run  away.  And  then  there  was  the 
relentless  Superintendent  sitting  over  him,  pipe  in 
mouth,  but  revolver  again  in  hand,  and  a  crooked 
finger  very  near  the  trigger. 

The  fiery  wilderness  still  lay  breathless  in  the 
great  heat,  but  the  lengthening  shadow  of  the  hop- 
bush  was  now  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for,  and  in  it 
the  broken  captive  fell  into  a  fine  semblance  of 
natural  slumber.  Cairns  watched  with  alternate 
envy  and  suspicion;  for  him  there  could  not  be  a 
wink ;  but  most  likely  the  fellow  was  shamming  all 
the  time.  No  ruse,  however,  succeeded  in  exposing 
the  sham,  which  the  Superintendent  copied  by 
breathing  first  heavily  and  then  stertorously,  with 
one  eye  open  and  on  his  man.  Stingaree  never 
opened  one  of  his :  there  was  no  change  in  the  regu- 
lar breathing,  in  the  peaceful  expression  of  the 
blood-stained  face :  asleep  the  man  must  be.  The 
Superintendent's  own  experiments  had  gone  to 
show  him  that  no  extremity  need  necessarily  keep 

206 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

one  awake  In  such  heat.  He  stifled  a  yawn  that 
was  no  part  of  his  performance.  His  pipe  was  out ; 
he  struck  a  match  noisily  on  his  boot;  and  Stingaree 
just  stirred,  as  naturally  as  any  infant.  But  Stinga- 
ree's  senses  were  incredibly  acute.  He  smelt  every 
whiff  of  the  rekindled  pipe,  knew  to  ten  seconds 
when  it  went  out  once  more,  and  listened  in  an 
agony  for  another  match.  None  was  struck.  Was 
the  Superintendent  himself  really  asleep  this  time? 
He  breathed  as  though  he  were;  but  so  did  Stinga- 
ree ;  and  yet  was  there  hope  in  the  fact  that  his  own 
greatest  struggle  all  this  time  had  been  against  the 
very  thing  he  feigned. 

At  last  he  opened  one  eye  a  little ;  it  was  met  by 
no  answering  furtive  glance;  he  opened  the  other, 
and  there  could  be  no  more  doubt.  The  terrible 
Superintendent  was  dozing  In  his  place;  but  it  was 
the  lightest  sort  of  doze,  the  eyes  were  scarcely 
closed,  and  all  but  watching  Stingaree,  as  the 
cocked  revolver  In  the  relaxed  hand  all  but  covered 
him. 

The  prisoner  felt  that  for  the  moment  he  was 
unseen,  forgotten,  but  that  the  lightest  move- 
ment of  his  body  would  open  those  terrible  eyes 
once  and  for  all.  Be  It  remembered  that  he  was 
lying  under  them  lengthwise,  on  the  bound  arm, 
with  the  arm  In  the  sling  uppermost,  and  easily  to 

207 


Stingaree 

be  freed,  but  yet  the  most  salient  part  of  the 
recumbent  figure,  and  that  on  which  the  hidden 
eyes  still  seemed  fixed,  for  all  their  lids.  To  make 
the  least  movement  there,  to  attempt  the  slowest 
withdrawal  of  hand  and  arm,  was  to  court  the  last 
disaster  of  discovery  in  such  an  act.  But  to  lie 
motionless  down  to  the  thighs,  and  to  execute  a 
flank  movement  with  the  leg  uppermost,  was  a  far 
less  perilous  exploit.  It  was  the  leg  with  the  bare 
foot:  every  detail  had  been  foreseen.  And  now 
at  last  the  bare  foot  hovered  over  the  revolver  and 
the  hand  it  held,  while  the  upper  man  yet  lay  like 
a  log  under  those  drowsy,  dreadful  eyes. 

Stingaree  took  a  last  look  at  the  barrel  drooping 
from  the  slackened  hand;  the  back  of  the  hand  lay 
on  the  ground,  the  muzzle  of  the  barrel  was  filled 
with  sand,  and  yet  the  angle  was  such  that  it  was 
by  no  means  sure  whether  a  bullet  would  bury  itself 
in  the  sand  or  in  Stingaree.  He  took  the  risk,  and 
with  his  bare  toe  he  touched  the  trigger  sharply. 
There  was  a  horrible  explosion.  It  brought  the 
drowsy  Superintendent  to  his  senses  with  such  a 
jerk  that  it  was  as  though  the  smoking  pistol  had 
leapt  out  of  his  hand  a  thing  alive,  and  so  into  the 
hand  that  flashed  to  meet  it  from  the  sling.  And 
almost  In  the  same  second — while  the  double  cloud 
of  smoke   and   sand  still   hung  between   them — 

208 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

Stiiigaree  sprang  from  the  ground,  an  armed  man 
once  more. 

"Sit  where  you  are !"  he  thundered.  "Up  with 
those  hands  before  I  shoot  them  to  shreds !  Your 
life's  in  less  danger  than  mine  has  been  all  day, 
but  I'll  wing  you  limb  by  limb  if  you  offer  to 
budge!" 

With  uplifted  hands  above  his  ears,  the  de- 
formed officer  sat  with  head  and  shoulders 
depressed  into  the  semblance  of  one  sphere.  Not 
a  syllable  did  he  utter;  but  his  upturned  eyes  shot 
indomitable  fires.  Stingaree  stood  wriggling  and 
fumbling  at  the  coil  which  bound  his  left  arm  to 
his  side;  suddenly  the  revolver  went  off,  as  if  by 
accident,  but  so  much  by  design  that  there  dangled 
two  ends  of  rope,  cut  and  burnt  asunder  by  lead 
and  powder.  In  less  than  a  minute  the  bushranger 
was  unbound,  and  before  the  minute  was  up  he  had 
leapt  upon  the  Superintendent's  thoroughbred.  It 
had  been  tethered  all  this  time  to  a  tree,  swishing 
tails  with  the  station  hack  which  Stingaree  had  rid- 
den as  a  captive;  he  now  rode  the  thoroughbred, 
and  led  the  hack,  to  the  very  feet  of  the  humiliated 
Cairns. 

"I  will  thank  you  for  that  water-bag,"  said 
Stingaree.  "I  am  much  obliged.  And  now  I'll 
trouble  you  for  that  nice  wideawake.     You  really 

209 


Stingaree 

don't  need  it  In  the  shade.  Thank  you  so 
much!" 

He  received  both  bag  and  hat  on  the  barrel  of 
the  Government  revolver,  hooking  the  one  to  its 
proper  saddle-strap,  and  clapping  on  the  other  at 
an  angle  inimitably  imitative  of  the  outwitted 
officer. 

"I  won't  carry  the  rehearsal  any  further  to  your 
face,"  continued  Stingaree;  "but  I  can  at  least 
promise  you  a  more  flattering  portrait  than  the  last; 
and  this  excellent  coat,  which  you  have  so  consider- 
ately left  strapped  to  your  saddle,  should  contribute 
greatly  to  the  verisimilitude.  Dare  I  hope  that 
you  begin  to  appreciate  some  of  the  points  of 
my  performance  so  far  as  it  has  gone?  The  pre- 
text on  which  I  bared  my  foot  for  Its  delicate  job 
under  your  very  eyes,  eh?  Not  so  vain  as  it 
looked,  In  either  sense,  I  fancy !  Should  you  have 
said  that  your  hand  would  recoil  from  a  revolver 
the  moment  It  went  off?  You  see,  I  staked  my  life 
on  it,  and  I've  won.  And  what  about  that  fall? 
It  was  the  lottery!  I  was  prepared  to  have  my 
head  cracked  like  an  egg.  and  it's  still  pretty  sore. 
The  broken  wrist  wasn't  your  fault;  It  had  passed 
into  the  accepted  situation  before  you  turned  up. 
And  you  would  certainly  have  seen  that  I  was 
shamming  sleep  if  we  hadn't  both  been  so  genu- 

2IO 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

inely  sleepy  at  the  time.  I  give  you  my  word,  I 
very  nearly  threw  up  the  whole  thing  for  forty 
winks !  Any  other  point  on  which  you  could  wish 
enlightenment?  Then  let  me  thank  you  with  all 
my  heart  for  one  of  the  worst  days,  and  some  of  the 
greatest  moments,  in  my  whole  career." 

But  the  crooked  man  answered  never  a  word, 
as  he  sat  in  a  ball  with  uplifted  palms,  and  glaring, 
upturned,  unconquerable  eyes. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Superintendent  Cairns,"  said 
Stingaree.  "I'm  afraid  I've  been  rather  cruel  to 
you — but  you  were  never  very  nice  to  me !" 

Sergeant  Cameron  was  driving  the  spring-cart, 
toward  sundown,  after  a  variety  of  unforeseen 
delays.  Of  a  sudden  out  of  the  pink  haze 
came  a  galloping  figure,  slightly  humped,  in 
the  inspector's  coat  and  wideawake,  with  a  bare 
foot  through  one  stirrup  and  only  a  sock  on 
its    fellow. 

"Where's  Stingaree?"  screamed  the  sergeant, 
pulling  up.  And  the  galloper  drew  rein  at  the 
driven  horse's  head. 

"Dead !"  said  he,  thickly.  "He  was  worse  than 
we  thought.    You  fetch  him  while  I " 

But  this  time  the  sergeant  knew  that  voice  too 
well,  and  his  right  hand  had  flown  to  the  back  of 

211 


Stingaree 


his  belt.  Stingaree's  shot  was  only  first  by  a  frac- 
tion of  a  second,  but  it  put  a  bullet  through  the 
brain  of  the  horse  between  the  shafts,  so  that  horse 
and  shafts  came  down  together,  and  the  sergeant 
fired  into  the  earth  as  he  fell  across  the  splash- 
board. 

Stingaree  pressed  soft  heels  into  the  thorough- 
bred's ribs  and  thundered  on  and  on.  Soon  there 
was  a  gate  to  open,  and  when  he  listened  at  that 
gate  all  was  still  behind  him  and  before;  but  far 
ahead  the  rolling  plain  was  faintly  luminous  In  the 
dusk,  and  as  this  deepened  Into  night  a  cluster  of 
terrestrial  lights  sprang  out  with  the  stars.  Stinga- 
ree knew  the  handful  of  gaunt,  unsheltered  huts 
the  lights  stood  for.  They  were  an  Inn,  a  store, 
and  police-barracks :  Clear  Corner  on  the  map. 
The  bushranger  galloped  straight  up  to  the  bar- 
racks, but  skirted  the  knot  of  men  In  the  light  be- 
fore the  veranda,  and  went  jingling  round  Into  the 
yard.  The  young  constable  In  charge  ran  through 
the  building  and  met  him  dismounted  at  the  back. 

"What's  the  matter,  sir?" 

"He's  gone!" 

"Stingaree?" 

"He  was  worse  than  we  thought.  Your  man 
all  right?" 

"No  trouble  whatever,  sir.    Only  sick  and  sorry 

212 


A  Duel  in  the  Desert 

and  saying  his  prayers  in  a  way  you'd  never  credit. 
Come  and  hear  him." 

"I  must  come  and  see  him  at  once.  Got  a  fresh 
horse  in?" 

"I  have  so!  In  and  saddled  in  the  stall.  I 
thought  you  might  want  one,  sir,  and  ran  up  Bar- 
maid, Stingaree's  own  mare,  that  was  sent  out  here 
from  the  station  when  we  had  the  news." 

"That  was  very  thoughtful  of  you.  You'll  get 
on,  young  man.  Now  lead  the  way  with  that 
lamp." 

This  time  Stingaree  had  spoken  in  gasps,  like  a 
man  who  had  ridden  very  far,  and  the  young  con- 
stable, unlike  his  sergeant,  did  not  know  his  voice 
of  old.  Yet  it  struck  him  at  the  last  moment  as 
more  unlike  the  voice  of  Superintendent  Cairns 
than  the  hardest  riding  should  have  made  it,  and 
with  the  key  in  the  door  of  the  cell  the  young  fel- 
low wheeled  round  and  held  the  lamp  on  high. 
That  instant  he  was  felled  to  the  floor,  the  lamp 
went  down  and  out  with  a  separate  yet  simultane- 
ous crash,  and  Stingaree  turned  the  key. 

"Howie  !     Not  a  word — out  you  come !" 

The  burly  ruflian  crept  forth  with  outstretched 
hands  apart. 

"What !     Not  even  handcuffed  ?" 

"No;  turned  over  a  new  leaf  the  moment  we  left 
213 


Stingaree 

you,  and  been  praying  like  a  parson  for  'em  all  to 
hear!" 

"This  chap  can  do  the  same  when  he  comes  to 
himself.  Lies  pretty  still,  doesn't  he?  In  with 
him!" 

The  door  clanged.  The  key  was  turned.  Sting- 
aree popped  it  into  his  pocket. 

"The  later  they  let  him  out  the  better.  Here's 
the  best  mount  you  ever  had.  And  my  sweetheart's 
waiting  for  me  in  the  stable!" 

Outside,  in  front,  before  the  barracks  veranda, 
an  inquisitive  little  group  heard  first  the  clang  of 
the  door  within,  and  presently  the  clatter  of  hoofs 
coming  round  from  the  yard.  Stingaree  and 
Howie — a  white  flash  and  a  bay  streak — swept 
past  them  as  they  stood  confounded.  And  the 
dwindling  pair  still  bobbed  in  sight,  under  a  full 
complement  of  stars,  when  a  fresh  outcry  from  the 
cell,  and  a  mighty  hammering  against  its  locked 
door,  broke  the  truth  to  one  and  all. 


214 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

THERE  was  no  more  fervent  admirer  of 
Stingaree  and  all  bushrangers  than  George 
Oswald  Abernethy  Melvin.  Despite  this  melliflu- 
ous nomenclature  young  Melvin  helped  his  mother 
to  sell  dance-music,  ballads,  melodeons,  and  a  very 
occasional  pianoforte,  in  one  of  the  several  self- 
styled  capitals  of  Riverina;  and  despite  both  facts 
the  mother  was  a  lady  of  most  gentle  blood.  The 
son  could  either  teach  or  tune  the  piano  with  a 
certain  crude  and  idle  skill.  He  endured  a  monop- 
oly of  what  little  business  the  locality  provided  in 
this  line,  and  sat  superior  on  the  music-stool  at  all 
the  dances.  He  had  once  sung  tenor  in  Bishop 
Methuen's  choir,  but,  offended  by  a  word  of  wise 
and  kindly  advice,  was  seen  no  more  in  surplice  or 
in  church.  It  will  be  perceived  that  Oswald  Mel- 
vin had  all  the  aggressive  independence  of  Young 
Australia  without  the  virility  which  leavens  the 
truer  type. 

Yet  he  was  neither  a  base  nor  an  unkind  lad. 
His  bane  was  a  morbid  temperament,  which  he 

215 


Stingaree 

could  no  more  help  than  his  sallow  face  and  weedy- 
person;  even  his  vanity  was  directly  traceable  to 
the  early  influence  of  an  eccentric  and  feckless 
father  with  experimental  ideas  on  the  upbringing 
of  a  child.  It  was  a  pity  that  brilliantly  unsuccess- 
ful man  had  not  lived  to  see  the  result  of  his 
sedulous  empiricism.  His  wife  was  left  to  bear  the 
brunt — a  brave  exile  whose  romantic  history  was 
never  likely  to  escape  her  continent  lips.  None 
even  knew  whether  she  saw  any  or  one  of  those 
aggravated  faults  of  an  only  child  which  were  so 
apparent  to  all  her  world. 

And  yet  the  worst  of  Oswald  Melvin  was  known 
only  to  his  own  morbid  and  sensitive  heart.  An 
unimpressive  presence  in  real  life,  on  his  mind's 
stage  he  was  ever  in  the  limelight  with  a  good  line 
on  his  lips.  Not  that  he  was  invariably  the  hero 
of  these  pieces.  He  could  see  himself  as  large  with 
the  noose  round  his  neck  as  in  coronet  or  halo ;  and 
though  this  inward  and  spiritual  temper  may  be 
far  from  rare,  there  had  been  no  one  to  kick  out 
of  him  its  outward  and  visible  expression.  Oswald 
had  never  learned  to  gulp  down  the  little  lie  which 
insures  a  flattering  attention;  his  clever  father  had 
even  encouraged  it  in  him  as  the  nucleus  of  imagi- 
nation. Imagination  he  certainly  had,  but  it  fed 
on  strong  meat  for  an  unhealthy  mind ;  it  fattened 

216 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

on  the  sordid  history  of  the  earhcr  bushrangers; 
its  favorite  fare  was  the  character  and  exploits  of 
Stingaree.  The  sallow  and  neurotic  face  would 
brighten  with  morbid  enthusiasm  at  the  bare  men- 
tion of  the  desperado's  name.  The  somewhat  dull, 
dark  eyes  would  lighten  with  borrowed  fires :  the 
young  fool  wore  an  eye-glass  in  one  of  them  when 
he  dared. 

"Stingaree,"  he  would  say,  "is  the  greatest  man 
in  all  Australia."  He  had  inherited  from  his 
father  a  delight  in  uttering  startling  opinions;  but 
this  one  he  held  with  unusual  sincerity.  It  had 
come  to  all  ears,  and  was  the  subject  of  that  episco- 
pal compliment  which  Oswald  took  as  an  affront. 
The  impudent  little  choristers  supported  his  loss 
by  calling  "Stingaree!"  after  him  in  the  street:  he 
was  wise  to  keep  his  eye-glass  for  the  house. 

There,  however,  with  a  few  even  younger  men 
who  admired  his  standpoint  and  revelled  in  his 
store  of  criminous  annals,  or  with  his  patient,  in- 
scrutable mother,  Oswald  Melvin  was  another  be- 
ing. His  language  became  bright  and  picturesque, 
his  animation  surprising.  A  casual  customer  would 
sometimes  see  this  side  of  him,  and  carry  away  the 
impression  of  a  rare  young  dare-devil.  And  it 
was  one  such  who  gave  Oswald  the  first  great 
moment  of  his  bush  life. 

217 


Stingaree 

"Not  been  down  from  the  back-blocks  for  three 
years?"  he  had  asked,  as  he  showed  a  tremulous 
and  dilapidated  bushman  how  to  play  the  instru- 
ment that  he  had  bought  with  the  few  shillings 
remaining  out  of  his  check.  "Been  on  the  spree 
and  going  back  to  drive  a  whim  until  you've  enough 
to  go  on  another?  How  I  wish  you'd  tell  that  to 
our  high  and  mighty  Lord  Bishop  of  all  the  Back- 
Blocks  !  I  should  like  to  see  his  face  and  hear  him 
on  the  subject;  but  I  suppose  he's  new  since  you 
were  down  here  last?  Never  come  across  him, 
eh  ?  But,  of  course,  you  heard  how  good  old  Sting- 
aree scored  off  him  the  other  day,  after  he  thought 
he'd  scored  off  Stingaree?" 

The  whim-driver  had  heard  something  about 
it.  Young  Melvin  plunged  into  the  congenial 
narrative  and  emerged  minutes  later  in  a  dusky 
glow. 

"That's  the  man  for  my  money,"  he  perorated. 
"Stingaree,  sir,  is  the  greatest  chap  in  all  these 
Colonies,  and  deserves  to  be  Viceroy  when  they  get 
Federation.  Thunderbolt,  Morgan,  Ben  Hall  and 
Ned  Kelly  were  not  a  circumstance  between  them 
to  Stingaree;  and  the  silly  old  Bishop's  a  silly  old 
fool  to  him!  I  don't  care  twopence  about  right 
and  wrong.  That's  not  the  point.  The  one's  a 
Force,  and  the  other  isn't." 

218 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

"A  darned  sight  too  much  force,  to  my  mind," 
observed  the  whim-driver  with  some  warmth. 

"You  don't  take  my  meaning,"  the  superior 
youth  pursued.     "It's  a  question  of  personahty." 

"A  bit  more  personal  than  you  think,"  was  the 
dark  rejoinder. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

Melvin's  tone  had  altered  in  an  Instant. 

"I  know  too  much  about  him." 

"At  first  hand?"  the  youth  asked,  with  bated 
breath. 

"Double  first!"  returned  the  other,  with  a  mud- 
dled glimmer  of  better  things. 

"You  never  knew  him,  did  you  ?"  whispered 
Oswald. 

"Knew  him?  I've  been  taken  prisoner  by  him," 
said  the  whim-driver,  with  the  pause  of  a  man 
who  hesitates  to  humiliate  himself,  but  is  lost  for 
the  sake  of  that  same  sensation  which  Oswald 
Melvin  loved  to  create. 

Mrs.  Melvin  was  in  the  back  room,  wistfully 
engrossed  in  an  English  magazine  sent  that  even- 
ing from  Bishop's  Lodge.  The  bad  blood  in  the 
son  had  not  affected  Dr.  Methuen's  keen  but  tact- 
ful interest  In  the  mother.  She  looked  up  in  tol- 
erant consternation  as  her  Oswald  pushed  an 
unsavory  bushman  before  him  Into  the  room;  but 

219 


Stingaree 

even  through  her  gentle  horror  the  mother's  love 
shone  with  that  steady  humor  which  raised  it  above 
the  sphere  of  obvious  pathos. 

"Here's  a  man  who's  been  stuck  up  by  Stinga- 
ree!" he  cried,  boyish  enough  in  his  delight.  "Do 
keep  an  eye  on  the  show,  mother,  and  let  him  tell 
me  all  about  it,  as  he's  good  enough  to  say  he  will. 
Is  there  any  whiskey?" 

"Not  for  me!"  put  in  the  whim-driver,  with  a 
frank  shudder.  "I  should  like  a  drink  of  tea  out 
of  a  cup,  if  I'm  to  have  anything." 

Mrs.  Melvin  left  them  with  a  good-humored 
word  besides  her  promise.  She  had  given  no  sign 
of  injury  or  disapproval;  she  was  not  one  of  the 
wincing  sort;  and  the  tremulous  tramp  was  in  her 
own  chair  before  her  back  was  turned. 

"Now  fire  away!"  cried  the  impatient  Oswald. 

"It's  a  long  story,"  said  the  whim-driver;  and 
his  dirty  brows  were  knit  in  thought. 

"Let's  have  it,"  coaxed  the  young  man.  And 
the  other's  thoughtful  creases  vanished  suddenly 
in  the  end. 

"\'ery  well,"  said  he,  "since  it  means  a  drink  of 
tea  out  of  a  cup  !  It  was  only  the  other  day,  in  a 
dust-stonn  away  back  near  the  Darling,  as  bad  a 
one  as  ever  I  was  out  in.  I  was  bushed  and  done 
for,  gave  it  up  and  said  my  prayers.    Then  I  prac- 

220 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

tically  died  in  my  tracks,  and  came  to  life  in  a  sunny 
clearing  later  in  the  day.  The  storm  was  over; 
two  coves  had  found  me  and  carried  me  to  their 
camp ;  and  as  soon  as  I  saw  them  I  spotted  one  for 
Howie  and  the  other  for  Stingaree !" 

The  narrative  went  no  farther  for  a  time.  The 
thrilling  youth  fired  question  and  leading  question 
like  a  cross-examining  counsel  in  a  fever  to  con- 
clude his  case.  The  tea  arrived,  but  the  whim- 
driver  had  to  help  himself.  His  host  neglected 
everything  but  the  first  chance  he  had  ever  had  of 
hearing  of  Stingaree  or  any  other  bushranger  at 
first-hand. 

"And  how  long  were  you  there?" 

"About  a  week." 

"What  happened  then?" 

The  whim-driver  paused  in  doubt  renewed. 

"You  will  never  guess." 

"Tell  me." 

"They  waited  for  the  next  dust-storm,  and  then 
cast  me  adrift  in  that." 

Oswald  stared;  he  would  never  have  guessed, 
indeed.  The  unhealthy  light  faded  from  his  sal- 
low face.  Even  his  morbid  enthusiasm  was  a  little 
damped. 

"You  must  have  done  something  to  deserve  It," 
he  cried,  at  last. 

221 


Stingaree 

"I  did,"  was  the  reply,  with  hanging  head.  "I 
— I  tried  to  take  him." 

"Take  your  benefactor — take  him  prisoner?" 
"Yes — the  man  who  saved  my  life." 
Melvin  sat  staring:  it  was  a  stare  of  honestly 
incredulous  disgust.  Then  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
a  brighter  youth  than  ever,  his  depression  melted 
like  a  cloud.  His  villainous  hero  was  an  heroic 
villain  after  all!  His  heart  of  hearts — which  was 
not  black — could  still  render  whole  homage  to 
Stingaree  !  He  no  longer  frowned  on  his  informer 
as  on  a  thing  accursed.  The  creature  had  wiped 
out  his  original  treachery  to  Stingaree  by  replacing 
the  uninjured  idol  in  its  niche  in  this  warped 
mind.  Oswald,  however,  had  made  his  repug- 
nance only  too  plain;  he  was  unable  to  elicit  an- 
other detail;  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  Mrs. 
Melvin  was  back  in  her  place,  though  not  before 
flicking  it  with  her  handkerchief,  undetected  by 
her  son. 

It  was  certainly  a  battered  and  hang-dog  figure 
that  stole  avv^ay  into  the  bush.  Yet  the  creature 
straightened  as  he  strode  into  star-light  undefiled 
by  earthly  illumination;  his  palsy  left  him;  pres- 
ently as  he  went  he  began  fingering  the  new  melo- 
deon  in  the  way  of  a  man  who  need  not  have 
sought  elementary  instruction  from  Oswald  Mel- 

222 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

vin.  And  now  a  shining  disk  filled  one  unwashed 
eye. 

Stingaree  lay  a  part  of  that  night  beside  the 
milk-white  mare  that  he  had  left  tethered  in  a 
box-clump  quite  near  the  town;  at  sunrise  he  knelt 
and  shaved  on  the  margin  of  a  Government  tank, 
before  breaking  the  mirror  by  plunging  in.  And 
before  the  next  stars  paled  he  was  snugly  back  in 
older  haunts,  none  knowing  of  his  descent  upon 
those  of  men. 

There  or  thereabouts,  hidden  like  the  needle  in 
the  hay,  and  yet  ubiquitous  in  the  stack,  the  bush- 
ranger remained  for  months.  Then  there  was  an 
encounter,  not  the  first  of  this  period,  but  the  first 
in  which  shots  were  exchanged.  One  of  these 
pierced  the  lungs  of  his  melodeon — an  Instrument 
more  notorious  by  this  time  than  the  m.usical-box 
before  it — a  still  greater  treasure  to  Stingaree. 
That  was  near  the  full  of  a  certain  summer  moon; 
it  was  barely  waning  to  the  eye  v/hen  the  battered 
buyer  of  melodeons  came  for  a  new  one  to  the  shop 
in  the  pretty  bush  town. 

The  shop  was  closed  for  the  night,  but  Stingaree 
knocked  at  a  lighted  window  under  the  veranda, 
which  Mrs.  Melvin  presently  threw  up.  Her  eyes 
flashed  when  she  recognized  one  against  w^hom  she 
now  harbored  a  bitterness  on  quite  a  different  plane 

22  ■^ 


Stingaree 


of  feeling  from  her  former  repulsion.  Even  to 
his  first  glance  she  looked  an  older  and  a  harder 
woman. 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  you,"  she  said,  with  a  soft 
vehemence  plainly  foreign  to  herself.  "I  almost 
hate  the  sight  of  you !  You  have  been  the  ruin  of 
my  son !" 

"His  ruin?" 

Stingaree  forgot  the  speech  of  the  unlettered 
stockman;  but  his  cry  was  too  short  to  do  worse 
than  warn  him. 

"Come  round,"  continued  Mrs.  Melvin,  aus- 
terely. "I  will  see  you.  You  shall  hear  what  you 
have  done." 

In  another  minute  he  was  in  the  parlor  where 
he  had  sat  aforetime.  He  never  dreamt  of  sitting 
now.  But  the  lady  took  her  accustomed  chair  as  a 
queen  her  throne. 

''Is  he  ruined?"  asked  Stingaree. 

"Not  irrevocably — not  yet;  but  he  may  be  any 
moment.     He  must  be  before  long." 

"But — but  what  ails  him,  madame?" 

"Villain-worship !"  cried  the  lady,  with  a  tragic 
face  stripped  of  all  its  humor,  and  bare  without  it 
as  a  winter's  tree. 

"I  remember!  Yes — I  understand.  He  was 
mad  about — Stingaree." 

224 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

"It  is  madness  now,"  said  the  bitter  mother. 
"It  was  only  a  stupid,  hare-brained  fancy  then,  but 
now  it  is  something  worse.  You're  the  first  to 
whom  I  have  admitted  it,"  she  continued,  with  il- 
logical indignation,  "because  it's  all  through  you  !" 

"All  through  me?" 

"You  told  him  a  tale.  You  made  that  villain  a 
greater  hero  in  his  eyes  than  ever.  You  made  him 
real." 

"He  is  real  enough,  God  knows !" 

"But  you  made  him  so  to  my  son."  The  keen 
eyes  softened  for  one  divine  instant  before  they 
filled.  "And  I — I  am  talking  my  own  boy  over 
with — with " 

Stingaree  stood  in  twofold  embarrassment.  Did 
she  know  after  all  who  he  was?  And  what  had 
he  said  he  was,  the  time  before? 

"The  lowest  of  the  low,"  he  answered,  with  a 
twitch  of  his  unshaven  lips. 

"No !  That  you  were  not,  or  are  not,  whatever 
you  may  say.  You — "  she  hesitated  sweetly — 
"you  had  been  unsteady  when  you  were  here  be- 
fore." He  twitched  again,  imperceptibly.  "I  am 
thankful  to  sec  that  you  are  now  more  like  what 
you  must  once  have  been.  I  can  bear  to  tell  you 
of  my  boy.     Oh,  sir,  can  you  bear  with  me?" 

Stingaree  twitched  no  more.  Rich  as  the  situa- 
225 


Stingaree 

tion  was,  keenly  as  he  had  savored  its  unsuspected 
irony,  the  humor  was  all  over  for  him.  Here  was 
a  woman,  still  young,  sweet  and  kind,  and  gentle 
as  a  childish  memory,  with  her  fine  eyes  full  of 
tears !  That  was  bad  enough.  To  make  it  worse, 
she  went  on  to  tell  him  of  her  son,  him  an  outlaw, 
him  a  bushranger  with  a  price  upon  his  skin,  as  she 
might  have  outlined  the  case  to  a  consulting  physi- 
cian. The  boy  had  been  born  in  the  trouble  of  her 
early  exile;  he  could  not  help  his  temperament.  He 
had  countless  virtues;  she  extolled  him  in  beaming 
parentheses.  But  he  had  too  much  imagination 
and  too  little  balance.  He  was  morbidly  wrapped 
up  in  the  whole  subject  of  romantic  crime,  and  no 
less  than  possessed  with  the  personality  of  this  one 
romantic  criminal. 

"I  should  be  ashamed  to  tell  you  the  childish 
lengths  to  which  he  has  gone,"  she  went  on,  "if 
he  were  quite  himself  on  the  point.  But  indeed 
he  is  not.  He  is  Stingaree  in  his  heart,  Stingaree 
in  his  dreams;  it  is  as  debasing  a  form  as  mental 
and  temperamental  weakness  could  well  take;  yet 
I  know,  v/ho  watch  over  him  half  of  the  night. 
He  has  an  eye-glass;  he  keeps  revolvers;  he  has 
even  bought  a  white  mare !  He  can  look  extremely 
like  the  portraits  one  has  seen  of  the  wretched 
man.     But  come  with  me  one  moment." 

226 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

She  took  the  lamp  and  led  the  way  into  the  little 
room  where  Oswald  Melvin  slept.  He  had  slept 
in  it  from  that  boyhood  in  which  the  brave  woman 
had  opened  this  sort  of  shop  entirely  for  his  sake. 
Music  was  his  only  talent;  he  was  obviously  not 
to  be  a  genius  in  the  musical  world;  but  it  was  the 
only  one  in  which  she  could  foresee  the  selfish, 
self-willed  child  figuring  with  credit,  and  her  fore- 
sight was  only  equalled  by  her  resource.  The  busi- 
ness was  ripe  and  ready  for  him  when  he  grew  up. 
And  this  was  what  he  was  making  of  it. 

But  Stingaree  saw  only  the  little  bed  that 
had  once  been  far  too  large,  the  Bible  still  by  its 
side,  read  or  unread,  the  parents'  portraits  over- 
head. The  mother  was  looking  in  an  opposite 
direction;  he  followed  her  eyes,  and  there  at  the 
foot,  where  the  infatuated  fool  could  see  it  last 
thing  at  night  and  first  in  the  morning,  was  an 
enlarged  photograph  of  the  bushranger  himself. 

It  had  been  taken  in  audacious  circumstances  a 
year  or  two  before.  A  travelling  photographer 
had  been  one  of  yet  another  coach-load  turned  out 
and  stood  in  a  line  by  the  masterful  masterless  man. 

"Now  you  may  take  my  photograph.  The  po- 
lice refuse  to  know  me  when  we  do  meet.  Give 
them  a  chance." 

And  he  had  posed  on  the  spot  with  eye-glass  up 
227 


Stingaree 

and  pistols  pointed,  as  he  saw  himself  now,  not 
less  than  a  quarter  life-size,  in  a  great  gaudy 
frame.  But  while  he  stared  Mrs.  Melvin  had  been 
rummaging  in  a  drawer,  and  when  he  turned  she 
was  staring  in  her  turn  with  glassy  eyes.  In  her 
hands  was  an  empty  mahogany  case  with  velvet 
moulds  which  ought  to  have  been  filled  by  a  brace 
of  missing  revolvers. 

"He  kept  it  locked — ^he  kept  them  in  it!"  she 
gasped.     "He  may  have  done  it  this  very  night !" 

"Done  what?" 

"Stuck  up  the  Deniliquin  mail.  That  is  his 
maddest  dream.  I  have  heard  him  boast  of  It  to 
his  friends — the  brainless  boys  who  alone  look  up 
to  him — I  have  even  heard  him  rave  of  It  in  his 
dreams!" 

Stingaree  was  heavy  for  a  moment  with  a  men- 
tal calculation.  His  head  was  a  time-table  of 
Cobb's  coaches  on  the  RIverlna  road-system;  he 
nodded  It  as  he  located  the  imperilled  vehicle. 

"A  dream  it  shall  remain,"  said  he.  "But 
there's  not  a  moment  to  lose!" 

"Do  you  propose  to  follow  and  stop  him?" 

"If  he  really  means  it." 

"He  may  not.  He  will  ride  at  night.  He  is 
often  out  as  late." 

"Going  and  coming  about  the  same  time?" 
228 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

"Yes — now  i  think  of  it." 

"Then  his  courage  must  have  failed  him  hith- 
erto, and  it  probably  will  again." 

"But  if  not!" 

"I  will  cure  him.  But  I  must  go  at  once.  I 
have  a  horse  not  far  away.  I  will  gallop  and  meet 
the  coach;  if  it  is  still  safe,  as  you  may  be  sure  it 
will  be,  I  shall  scour  the  country  for  your  son.  I 
can  tell  him  a  fresh  thing  or  two  about  Stingaree  !" 

"God  bless  you !" 

"Leave  him  to  me." 

"Oh,  may  God  bless  you  always!" 

His  hands  were  in  a  lady's  hands  once  more. 
Stingaree  withdrew  them  gently.  And  he  looked 
his  last  into  the  brave  wet  eyes  raised  gratefully 
to  his. 

The  villain-worshipper  was  indeed  duly  posted 
in  a  certain  belt  of  trees  through  which  the  coach- 
route  ran,  about  half-way  between  the  town  and 
the  first  stage  south.  It  was  not  his  first  nocturnal 
visit  to  the  spot;  often,  as  his  prototype  divined, 
had  the  mimic  would-be  desperado  sat  trembling 
on  his  hoary  screw,  revolvers  ready,  while  the  red 
eyes  of  the  coach  dilated  down  the  road;  and  as 
often  had  the  cumbrous  ship  pitched  past  un- 
scathed. The  week-kneed  and  weak-minded  youth 
was  too  vain  to  feel  much  ashamed.     He  was  bid- 

229 


Stingaree 

Ing  his  time,  he  could  pick  his  night;  one  was  too 
dark,  another  not  dark  enough;  he  had  always 
some  excuse  for  himself  when  he  regained  his 
room,  still  unstained  by  crime ;  and  so  the  unhealthy 
excitement  was  deliciously  maintained.  To-night, 
as  always  when  he  sallied  forth,  the  deed  should  be 
done ;  he  only  wished  there  was  a  shade  less  moon, 
and  wondered  whether  he  might  not  have  done 
better  to  wait.  But,  as  usual,  the  die  was  cast. 
And  indeed  it  was  quite  a  new  complication  that 
deterred  this  poor  creature  for  the  last  time :  he 
was  feverishly  expecting  the  coach  when  a  patter 
of  hoofs  smote  his  ear  from  the  opposite  quarter. 

This  was  enough  to  stay  an  older  and  a 
bolder  hand.  Oswald  tucked  in  his  guns  with 
unrealized  relief.  It  was  his  last  instinct  to  wait 
and  see  whether  the  horseman  was  worth  attacking 
for  his  own  sake;  he  had  room  for  few  ideas  at 
the  same  time ;  and  his  only  new  one  was  the  sense 
of  a  new  danger,  which  he  prepared  to  meet  by 
pocketing  his  pistols  as  a  child  bolts  stolen  fruit. 
There  Vv^as  no  thinking  before  the  act;  but  it  was 
perhaps  as  characteristic  of  the  naturally  honest 
man  as  of  the  coward. 

Stingaree  swept  through  the  trees  at  a  gallop, 
the  milk-white  mare  flashing  in  the  moonlit 
patches.     At  the  sight  of  her  Oswald  was  con- 

230 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

vulsed  with  a  premonition  as  to  who  was  coming; 
his  heart  palpitated  as  even  his  heart  had  never 
done  before;  and  yet  he  would  have  sat  irresolute, 
inert,  and  let  the  man  pass  as  he  always  let  the 
coach,  had  the  decision  been  left  to  him.  The  real 
milk-white  mare  affected  the  imitation  in  its  turn 
as  the  coach-horses  never  had ;  and  Oswald  swayed 
and  swam  upon  a  whinnying  steed. 

"I  thought  you  were  Stingaree!" 

The  anti-climax  was  as  profound  as  the  weak- 
ling's relief.  Yet  there  was  a  strong  dash  of  indig- 
nation in  his  tone. 

"What  if  I  am?" 

"But  you're  not.  You're  not  half  smart  enough. 
You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  Stingaree!" 

He  put  his  eye-glass  up  with  an  air. 

Stingaree  put  up  his. 

"You  young  fool!"  said  he. 

The  thoroughbred  mare,  the  eye-glass,  a  peeping 
pistol,  were  all  superfluous  evidence.  There  was 
the  far  more  unmistakable  authority  of  voice  and 
eye  and  bearing.  Yet  the  voice  at  least  was  some- 
how familiar  to  the  ear  of  Oswald,  who  stuttered 
as  much  when  he  was  able. 

"I  must  have  heard  it  before,  or  have  I  dreamt 
it?  I've  thought  a  good  deal  about  you,  you 
know!" 

231 


Stingaree 


To  do  him  justice,  he  was  no  longer  very  ner- 
vous, though  still  physically  shaken.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  began  already  to  feel  the  elation  of  his 
dreams. 

"I  do  know.  You've  thought  your  soul  into 
a  pulp  on  the  subject,  and  you  must  give  it  up," 
said  Stingaree,  sternly. 

Oswald  sat  aghast. 

"But  how  on  earth  did  you  know?" 

"I've  come  straight  from  your  mother.  You're 
breaking  her  heart." 

"But  how  can  you  have  come  straight  from 
herr 

"I've  come  down  for  another  melodeon.  I've 
got  to  have  one,  too." 

''Another " 

And  Oswald  Melvin  knew  his  drunken  whim- 
driver  for  what  he  had  really  been. 

"The  yam  I  told  you  about  myself  was  true 
enough,"  continued  Stingaree.  "Only  the  names 
were  altered,  as  they  say;  it  happened  to  the  other 
fellow,  not  to  me.  I  made  it  happen.  He  is 
hardly  likely  to  have  lived  to  tell  the  tale." 

"Did  he  really  try  to  betray  you  after  what 
you'd  done  for  him?" 

"More  or  less.    He  looked  on  me  as  fair  game." 

"But  you  had  saved  his  life?" 
232 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

Stingaree  shrugged. 

*'We  rode  across  him." 

"And  you  think  he  perished  of  dust  and 
thirst?" 

Stingaree  nodded.     "In  torment!" 

"Then  he  got  what  he  jolly  well  earned!  Any- 
thing less  would  have  been  too  good  for  him !" 
cried  Oswald,  and  with  a  boyish,  uncompromising 
heat  which  spoke  to  some  human  nature  in  him 
still. 

But  Stingaree  frowned  up  the  moonlit  track. 
There  was  still  no  sign  of  the  coach.  Yet  time 
was  short,  and  the  morbid  enthusiast  was  not  to  be 
disgusted ;  indeed,  he  was  all  enthusiasm  now,  and 
a  less  unattractive  lad  than  the  bushranger  had 
hoped  to  find  him.  He  looked  the  white  screw 
and  Oswald  up  and  down  as  they  sat  in  their  sad- 
dles in  the  moonshine:  it  seemed  like  sunhght  on 
that  beaming  fool. 

"And  you  think  of  commencing  bushranger,  do 
you?" 

"Rather!" 

"It's  a  hard  life  while  it  lasts,  and  a  nasty  death 
to  top  up  with." 

"They  don't  hang  you  for  it." 

"They  might  hang  me  for  the  man  I  put  back 
in  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung.     They'd 

233 


Stingaree 

hang  you  in  six  months.    You've  too  many  nerves. 
You'd  pull  the  trigger  every  time." 

"A  short  life  and  a  merry  one!"  cried  the  reck- 
less Oswald.     "I  shouldn't  care." 

"But  your  mother  would,"  retorted  Stingaree, 
sharply.  "Don't  think  about  yourself  so  much; 
think  about  her  for  a  change." 

The  young  man  turned  dusky  in  the  moonlight; 
he  was  wounded  where  the  Bishop  had  wounded 
him,  and  Stingaree  was  quick  to  see  it — as  quick  to 
turn  the  knife  round  in  the  wound. 

"What  a  bushranger!"  he  jeered.  "Put  your 
plucky  little  mother  in  a  side-saddle  and  she'd 
make  two  of  you — ten  of  you — twenty  of  a  puny, 
namby-pamby,  conceited  young  idiot  like  you! 
Upon  my  word,  Melvin,  if  I  had  a  mother  like  you 
I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself.  I  never  had,  I 
may  tell  you,  or  I  shouldn't  have  come  down  to  a 
dog's  life  like  this." 

The  bushranger  paused  to  watch  the  effect  of 
his  insults.  It  was  not  quite  what  he  wanted.  The 
youth  would  not  hang  his  head.  And,  If  he  did 
not  answer  back,  he  looked  back  doggedly  enough; 
for  he  could  be  dogged,  in  a  passive  way;  it  was  his 
one  hard  qualit}^  the  knot  in  a  character  of  green 
deal.  Stingaree  glanced  up  the  road  once  more, 
but  only  for  an  instant. 

234 


The  Villain- Worshipper 

"It  is  a  dog's  life,"  he  went  on,  "whether  you 
believe  it  or  not.  But  it  takes  a  bull-dog  to  live  it, 
and  don't  you  forget  it.  It's  no  life  for  a  young 
poodle  like  you !  You  can't  stick  up  a  better  man 
than  yourself,  not  more  than  once  or  twice.  It 
requires  something  more  than  a  six-shooter,  and  a 
good  deal  more  than  was  put  into  you,  my  son! 
But  you  shall  see  for  yourself;  look  over  your 
shoulder." 

Oswald  did  so,  and  started  in  a  fashion  that  set 
the  bushranger  nodding  his  scorn.  It  was  only  a 
pair  of  lamps  still  close  together  in  the  distance  up 
the  road. 

"The  coach !"  exclaimed  the  excited  youth. 

"Exactly,"  said  Stingaree,  "and  I'm  going  to 
stick  it  up." 

Excitement  grew  to  frenzy  in  a  flash. 

"I'll  help  you!" 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing.  But  you  shall  see 
how  it's  done,  and  then  ask  yourself  candidly  if 
it's  nice  work  and  if  you're  the  man  to  do  it.  Ride 
a  hundred  yards  further  in,  tether  your  horse 
quickly  in  the  thickest  scrub  you  can  find,  then 
run  back  and  climb  into  the  fork  of  this  gum-tree. 
You'll  have  time;  if  you're  sharp  I'll  give  you  a 
leg  up.  But  I  sha'n't  be  surprised  if  I  don't  see 
you  again !" 

235 


Stingaree 

There  is  no  saying  what  Oswald  might  have 
done,  but  for  these  last  words.  Certain  it  is  that 
they  set  him  galloping  with  an  oath,  and  brought 
him  back  panting  in  another  minute.  The  coach- 
lamps  were  not  much  wider  apart.  Stingaree 
awaited  him,  also  on  foot,  and  quicker  than  the 
telling  Oswald  was  ensconced  on  high  where  he 
could  see  through  the  meagre  drooping  leaves  with 
very  little  danger  of  being  seen. 

"And  if  you  come  down  before  I'm  done  and 
gone — if  it's  not  to  glory — I'll  run  some  lead 
through  you  !    You'll  be  the  first !" 

Oswald  perched  reflecting  on  this  final  threat; 
and  the  scene  soon  enacted  before  his  eyes  was 
viewed  as  usual  through  the  aura  of  his  own  ego- 
ism. He  longed  all  the  time  to  be  taking  part  in 
It;  he  could  see  himself  so  distinctly  at  the  work — 
save  for  about  a  minute  in  the  middle,  when  for 
once  in  his  life  he  held  his  breath  and  trembled  for 
other  skins. 

There  had  been  no  unusual  feature.  The  life- 
size  coach-lamps  had  shown  their  mountain-range 
of  outside  passengers  against  moonlit  sky  or  trees. 
A  cigar  paled  and  reddened  between  the  teeth  of 
one,  plain  wreaths  of  smoke  floated  from  his  lips, 
with  but  an  instant's  break  when  Stingaree  rode 
out  and  stopped  the  coach.     The  three  leaders 

236 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

reared;  the  two  wheelers  were  pulled  almost  to 
their  haunches.  The  driver  was  docile  in  deed, 
though  profane  in  word;  and  Stingaree  himself 
discovered  a  horrifying  vocabulary  out  of  keeping 
with  his  reputation.  In  incredibly  few  minutes 
driver  and  passengers  were  formed  in  a  line  and 
robbed  in  rotation,  all  but  two  ladies  who  were 
kept  inside  unmolested.  A  flagrant  Irishman  de- 
clared it  was  the  proudest  day  of  his  life, 
and  Oswald's  heart  went  out  to  him,  though 
it  rather  displeased  him  to  find  his  own  sentiments 
shared  by  the  vulgar.  The  man  with  the  cigar 
kept  it  glowing  all  the  time.  The  mail-bags  were 
not  demanded  on  this  occasion.  Stingaree  had  no 
time  to  waste  on  them.  He  was  still  collecting 
purse  and  watch,  when  Oswald''s  young  blood 
froze  in  the  stiffening  limbs  he  dared  not  move. 

One  of  the  ladies  had  got  down  from  the  coach 
on  the  off  side,  and  behold!  it  was  a  man  wrapped 
in  a  rug,  which  dropped  from  him  as  he  crept 
round  behind  the  horses.  At  their  head  stood  the 
lily  mare,  as  if  doing  her  own  nefarious  part  by 
her  own  kind.  In  a  twinkling  the  mad  adventurer 
was  on  her  back,  and  all  this  time  Oswald  longed 
to  jump  down,  or  at  least  to  shout  a  warning  to  his 
hero,  but,  as  usual,  his  desires  were  unproductive 
of  word  or  deed.    And  then  Stingaree  saw  his  man. 

237 


Stingaree 

He  did  not  fire;  he  did  not  shift  sight  or  barrel 
for  a  moment  from  the  docile  file  before  him. 
"Barmaid!  Barmaid,  my  pet!"  he  cried,  and 
hardly  looked  to  see  what  happened. 

But  Oswald  watched  the  mare  stop,  prick  her 
ears  under  the  hammering  of  unspurred  heels,  spin 
round,  bucking  as  she  spun,  and  toss  her  rider  like 
a  bull.  There  in  the  moonlight  he  lay  like  lead, 
with  leaden  face  upturned  to  the  shuddering 
youngster  in  the  tree. 

"One  of  you  a  doctor?"  asked  Stingaree,  check- 
ing a  forward  movement  of  the  file. 

"I  am." 

The  cigar  was  paling  between  finger  and  thumb. 

"Then  come  you  here  and  have  a  look  at  him. 
The  rest  of  you  move  at  your  peril !" 

Stingaree  led  the  way,  stepping  backward,  but 
not  as  far  as  the  injured  man,  who  sat  up  ruefully 
as  the  bushranger  sprang  into  the  saddle. 

"Another  yard,  and  I'd  have  grabbed  your 
ankles !"  said  the  man  on  the  ground. 

"You're  a  stout  fellow,  but  I  know  more  about 
this  game  than  you,"  the  outlaw  answered,  riding 
to  his  distance  and  reining  up.  "If  I  didn't  you 
might  have  had  me — ^but  you  must  think  of  some- 
thing better  for  Stingaree !" 

He  galloped  his  mare  into  the  bush  and  Oswald 
238 


The  mare  spun  round,  bucking  as  she  spun. 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

clung  in  lonely  terror  to  his  tree.  A  snatch  of  con- 
versation called  him  to  attention.  The  plundered 
party  were  clambering  philosophically  to  their 
seats,  while  the  driver  blasphemed  delightedly  over 
the  integrity  of  his  mails. 

"That  wasn't  Stingaree,"  said  one. 

"You  bet  it  was!" 

"How  much?  He  hardly  ever  works  so  far 
south." 

"And  he's  nuts  on  mails." 

"But  if  it  wasn't  Stingaree,  who  was  it?" 

"It  was  him  all  right.    Look  at  the  mare." 

"She  isn't  the  only  white  'orse  ever  foaled," 
remarked  the  driver,  sorting  his  fistful  of  reins. 

"But  who  else  could  it  have  been?" 

The  driver  uttered  an  inspired  imprecation. 

"I  can  tell  you.  I  chanst  to  live  in  this  here 
township  we're  comin'  to.  On  second  thoughts, 
I'll  keep  it  to  myself  till  we  get  there." 

And  he  cracked  his  whip. 

Oswald  himself  rode  back  to  the  township  before 
the  moon  went  down.  He  was  very  heavy  with 
his  own  reflections.  How  magnificent !  It  had  all 
surpassed  his  most  extravagant  imaginings — in 
audacity,  in  expedition,  in  simple  mastery  of  the 
mutable  many  by  the  dominant  one.  He  forgave 
Stingaree  his  gibes  and  insults;  he  could  have  for- 

239 


Stingaree 

given  a  horse-whipping  from  that  king  of  men. 
Stingaree  had  been  his  imaginary  god  before;  he 
was  a  realized  ideal  from  this  night  forth,  and  the 
reality  outdid  the  dream. 

But  the  fly  of  self  must  always  poison  this  young 
man's  ointment,  and  to-night  there  was  some  ex- 
cuse from  his  degenerate  point  of  view.  He  must 
give  it  up.  Stingaree  was  right;  it  was  only  one 
man  in  thousands  who  could  do  unerringly  what 
he  had  done  that  night.  Oswald  Melvin  was  not 
that  man.  He  saw  it  for  himself  at  last.  But  it 
was  a  bitter  hour  for  him.  Life  in  the  music-shop 
would  fall  very  flat  after  this;  he  would  be  dis- 
honored before  his  only  friends,  the  unworthy  hob- 
bledehoys who  were  to  have  joined  his  gang;  he 
could  not  tell  them  what  had  happened,  not  at 
least  until  he  had  invented  some  less  inglorious 
part  for  himself,  and  that  was  a  difficulty  in  view 
of  newspaper  reports  of  the  sticking-up.  He  could 
scarcely  tell  them  a  true  word  of  what  had  passed 
between  himself  and  Stingaree.  If  only  he  might 
yet  grow  more  like  the  master!  If  only  he  might 
still  hope  to  follow  so  sublime  a  lead ! 

Thus  aspiring,  vainly  as  now  he  knew,  Oswald 
Melvin  rode  slowly  back  into  the  excited  town,  and 
past  the  lighted  police-barracks,  in  the  innocence 
of  that  portion  of  his  heart.     But  one  had  flown 

240 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

like  the  wind  ahead  of  him,  and  two  in  uniform, 
followed  by  that  one,  dashed  out  on  Oswald  and 
the  old  white  screw. 

"Surrender!"  sang  out  one. 

"In  the  Queen's  name!"  added  the  other. 

"Call  yourself  Stingaree!"  panted  the  runner. 

Our  egoist  was  quick  enough  to  grasp  their 
meaning,  but  quicker  still  to  see  and  to  seize  the 
chance  of  a  crazy  lifetime.  Always  acute  where 
his  own  vanity  was  touched,  his  promptitude  was 
for  once  on  a  par  with  his  perceptions. 

"Had  your  eye  on  me  long?"  he  inquired,  de- 
lightfully, as  he  dismounted. 

"Long  enough,"  said  one  policeman.  The  other 
was  busy  plucking  loaded  revolvers  from  the  des- 
perado's pockets.     A  crowd  had  formed. 

"If  you're  looking  for  the  loot,"  he  went  on, 
raising  his  voice  for  the  benefit  of  all,  "you  may 
look.  /  sha'n't  tell  you,  and  it'll  take  you  all  your 
time!" 

But  a  surprise  was  in  store  for  prisoner  and 
pohce  alike.  Every  stolen  watch  and  all  the  miss-  • 
ing  money  were  discovered  no  later  than  next  morn- 
ing in  the  bush  quite  close  to  the  scene  of  the  out- 
rage. There  had  been  no  attempt  to  hide  them; 
they  lay  in  a  heap,  dumped  from  the  saddle,  with 
no  more  depreciation  than  a  broken  watch-glass. 

241 


Stingaree 

True  to  his  new  character,  Oswald  learned  this 
development  without  flinching.  His  ready  com- 
ment was  In  next  day's  papers. 

"There  was  nothing  worth  having,"  he  had 
maintained,  and  did  not  see  the  wisdom  of  the 
boast  until  a  lawyer  called  and  pointed  out  that  it 
contained  the  nucleus  of  a  strong  defence. 

"I'll  defend  myself,  thank  you,"  said  the  Inflated 
fool. 

"Then  you'll  make  a  mess  of  It,  and  deserve  all 
you  get.  And  It  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  such  a 
good  defence." 

"What  is  the  defence?" 

"You  did  it  for  a  joke,  of  course!" 

Oswald  smiled  Inscrutably,  and  dismissed  his 
visitor  with  a  lordly  promise  to  consider  the  propo- 
sition and  that  lawyer's  claims  upon  the  case. 
Never  was  such  triumph  tasted  In  guilty  Immunity 
as  was  this  innocent  man's  under  cloud  of  guilt  so 
apparent  as  to  impose  on  every  mind.  He  had  but 
carried  out  a  notorious  Intention;  for  his  few 
friends  were  the  first  to  betray  their  captain,  albeit 
his  bold  bearing  and  magnanimous  smiles  won  an 
admiration  which  they  had  never  before  vouch- 
safed him  In  their  hearts.  He  was.  Indeed,  a  dif- 
ferent man.  He  had  lived  to  see  Stingaree  In 
action,  and  now  he  modelled  himself  from  the  life. 

242 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

The  only  doubt  was  as  to  whether  at  the  last  of 
that  business  he  had  actually  avowed  himself 
Stingarec  or  not.  There  might  have  been  trouble 
about  the  horse,  but  fortunately  for  the  enthusi- 
astic prisoner  the  man  who  had  been  thrown  was 
allowed  to  proceeed  on  a  pressing  journey  to  the 
Barcoo.  There  was  a  plethora  of  evidence  without 
his;  besides,  the  hide-and-bone  mare  was  called 
Barmaid,  after  the  original,  and  it  was  knov/n 
that  Oswald  had  tried  to  teach  the  old  creature 
tricks;  above  all,  the  prisoner  had  never  pretended 
to  deny  his  guilt.  Still,  this  matter  of  the  horses 
gave  him  a  certain  sense  of  insecurity  In  his  cosey 
cell. 

He  had  awakened  to  find  himself  not  only 
deliciously  notorious,  but  actually  more  of  a  man 
than  In  his  heart  of  hearts  he  had  dared  to  hope. 
The  tenacity  and  consistency  of  his  pose  were  alike 
remarkable.  Even  In  the  overweening  cause  of 
egoism  he  had  never  shown  so  much  character  In 
his  life.  Yet  he  shuddered  to  realize  that,  given 
the  usual  time  for  reflection  before  his  great  mo- 
ment, that  moment  might  have  proved  as  mean  as 
many  anorfier  when  the  spirit  had  becen  wine  and 
the  flesh  water.  There  was.  In  fine,  but  one  fea- 
ture of  the  affair  which  even  Oswald  Melvin, 
drunk  with  notoriety  and  secretly  sanguine  of  a 

243 


Stingaree 

nominal  punishment,  could  not  contemplate  with 
absolute  satisfaction.  But  that  feature  followed 
the  others  into  the  papers  v/hich  kept  him  intoxi- 
cated. And  a  bundle  of  these  papers  found  their 
adventurous  way  to  the  latest  fastness  of  Stingaree 
in  the  mallee. 

The  real  villain  dropped  his  eye-glass,  clapped 
It  in  again,  and  did  his  best  to  crack  it  with  his 
stare.  Student  of  character  as  he  was,  he  could  not 
have  conceived  such  a  development  in  such  a  char- 
acter. He  read  on,  more  enlightened  than  amused. 
"To  think  he  had  the  pluck!"  he  murmured,  as  he 
dropped  that  Australasian  and  took  up  the  next 
week's.  He  v/as  filled  with  admiration,  but  soon 
a  frown  and  then  an  oath  came  to  put  an  end  to  it. 
"The  little  beast,"  he  cried,  "he'll  kill  that  woman  ! 
He  can't  have  kept  it  up."  He  sorted  the  papers 
for  the  latest  of  all — a  sinful  publican  saved  them 
for  him — and  therein  read  that  Oswald  Melvin 
had  been  committed  for  trial,  and  that  his  only 
concern  was  for  the  condition  of  his  mother,  which 
was  still  unchanged,  and  had  seemed  latterly  to 
distress  the  prisoner  very  much. 

"I'll  distress  him !"  roared  Stingaree  to  the 
mallee.  "I'll  distress  him,  if  we  change  places 
for  it!" 

Riding  all  night,  and  as  much  as  he  dared  by 
244 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

day,  it  was  some  hundred  hours  before  he  paid  his 
third  and  last  v^isit  to  the  Melvins'  music-shop. 
He  rode  boldly  to  the  door,  but  he  rode  a  piebald 
mare  not  to  be  confused  in  the  most  suspicious  mind 
with  the  no  more  conspicuous  Barmaid.  It  is  true 
the  brown  parts  smelt  of  Condy's  Fluid,  and 
were  at  once  strange  and  seemingly  a  little 
tender  to  the  touch.  But  Stingaree  allowed  no 
meddling  with  his  mount;  and  only  a  very 
sinful  publican,  very  many  leagues  back,  was  in 
the  secret. 

There  were  no  lighted  windows  behind  the  shop 
to-night.  The  whole  place  was  in  darkness,  and 
Stingaree  knocked  in  vain.  A  neighbor  appeared 
upon  the  next  veranda. 

"Who  is  it  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"Mrs.  Melvin." 

"It's  no  use  knocking  for  her." 

"Is  she  dead?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of;  but  she  can't  be  long  for 
this  world." 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"Bishop's  Lodge;  they  say  Miss  Methuen's  with 
her  day  and  night." 

For  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  Bishop's  daughter, 
who  had  a  strong  mind  but  no  sense  of  humor,  and 
a  heart  only  fickle  in  its  own  affairs.     Miss  Meth- 

245 


Stingaree 

u<ai  made  an  admirable,  if  a  somewhat  too  assidu- 
ous and  dictatorial,  nurse.  She  had,  however,  a 
fund  of  real  sympathy  with  the  afflicted,  and  Mrs. 
Melvin's  only  serious  complaint  (which  she  in- 
tended to  die  without  uttering)  was  that  she  was 
never  left  alone  with  her  grief  by  day  or  night. 
It  was  Miss  Methuen  who,  sitting  with  rather 
ostentatious  patience  in  the  dark,  at  the  open  win- 
dow, until  her  patient  should  fall  or  pretend  to  be 
asleep,  saw  a  man  ride  a  piebald  horse  in  at  the 
gate,  and  then,  half-way  up  the  drive,  suspiciously 
dismount  and  lead  his  horse  into  a  tempting 
shrubbery. 

Stingaree  did  not  often  change  his  mind  at  the 
last  moment,  but  he  knew  the  man  on  whose  gener- 
osity he  was  about  to  throw  himself,  which  was  to 
know  further  that  that  generosity  would  be  curbed 
by  judgment,  and  to  reflect  that  he  was  least  likely 
to  be  deprived  of  a  horse  whose  whereabouts  was 
known  only  to  himself.  There  was  but  one  lighted 
room  when  he  eventually  stole  upon  the  house;  it 
had  a  veranda  to  itself;  and  in  the  bright  frame  of 
the  French  windows,  which  stood  open,  sat  the 
Bishop  with  his  Bible  on  his  knees. 

"Yes,  I  know  you,"  said  he,  putting  his  marker 
in  the  place  as  Stingaree  entered,  boots  in  one  hand 
and  something  else  in  the  other.     "I  thought  we 

246 


Stingaree  knocked  in  vain. 


The  Villain- Worshipper 

should  meet  again.  Do  you  mind  putting  that 
thing  back  in  your  pocket?" 

"Will  you  promise  not  to  call  a  soul?" 

"Oh,  dear,  yes." 

"You  weren't  expecting  me,  were  you?"  cried 
Stingaree,  suspiciously. 

"I've  been  expecting  you  for  months,"  returned 
the  Bishop.  "You  knew  my  address,  but  I  hadn't 
yours.    We  were  bound  to  meet  again." 

Stingaree  smiled  as  he  took  his  revolver  by  the 
barrel  and  carried  it  across  the  room  to  Dr. 
Methuen. 

"What's  that  for?  I  don't  want  it;  put  it  in 
your  own  pocket.  At  least  I  can  trust  you  not  to 
take  my  life  in  cold  blood." 

The  Bishop  seeemed  nettled  and  annoyed. 
Stingaree  loved  him. 

"I  don't  come  to  take  anything,  much  less  life," 
he  said.    "I  come  to  save  it,  if  it  is  not  too  late." 

"To  save  life — here?" 

"In  your  house." 

"But  whom  do  you  know  of  my  household?" 

"Mrs.  Melvin.  I  have  had  the  honor  of  meet- 
ing her  twice,  though  each  time  she  was  unaware 
of  the  dishonor  of  meeting  me.  The  last  time  I 
promised  to  try  to  save  her  unhappy  son  from  him- 
self.    I  found  him  waiting  to  waylay  the  coach, 

247 


Stingaree 

told  him  who  I  was,  and  had  ten  minutes  to  try  to 
cure  him  in.  He  wouldn't  listen  to  reason;  insult 
ran  like  water  off  his  back.  I  did  my  best  to  show 
him  what  a  life  it  was  he  longed  to  lead,  and  how 
much  more  there  was  in  it  than  a  loaded  revolver. 
He  wouldn't  take  my  word  for  it,  however,  so  I 
put  him  out  of  harm's  way,  up  in  a  tree;  and  when 
the  coach  came  along  I  gave  him  as  brutal  an  exhi- 
bition of  the  art  of  bushranging  as  I  could  without 
spilling  blood.  I  promise  you  it  was  for  no  other 
reason.  What  did  I  want  with  watches?  What 
were  a  few  pounds  to  me?  I  dropped  the  lot  that 
the  lad  might  know." 

The  Bishop  started  to  his  gaitered  legs. 
"And  he's  actually  innocent  all  the  time?'* 
"Of  the  deed,  as  the  babe  unborn." 

"Then  why  in  the  wide  world " 

Dr.  Methuen  stood  beggared  of  further  speech. 
His  mind  was  too  plain  and  sane  for  immediate 
understanding  of  such  a  type  as  Oswald  Melvin. 
But  the  bushranger  hit  off  that  young  man's  char- 
acter in  half-a-dozen  trenchant  phrases. 

"He  must  be  let  out,  and  it  may  save  his 
mother's  life;  but  if  he  were  mine,"  exclaimed  the 
Bishop,  "I  would  rather  he  had  done  the  other 
deed!  But  what  about  you?"  he  added,  suddenly, 
his  eyes  resting  on  his  sardonic  visitor,  who  had 

248 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

disguised  himself  far  less  dian  his  horse.     "It  will 
mean  giving  yourself  up." 

"No.  You  know  me.  You  can  spread  what 
I've  told  you." 

The  Bishop  shifted  uneasily  on  his  hearth-rug. 

"I  may  not  see  my  way  to  that,"  said  he. 
"Besides,  you  must  have  run  a  lot  of  risks  to  do 
this  good  action;  how  do  you  know  you  haven't 
been  recognized  already?  I  should  have  known 
you  anywhere." 

"But  you  have  undertaken  not  to  raise  an  alarm, 
my  lord." 

"I  shall  not  break  my  promise." 

There  was  a  grim  regret  in  the  Bishop's  voice. 
Stingaree  thought  he  understood  it. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Don't  thank  me,  pray!"  Dr.  Methuen  could 
be  quite  testy  on  occasion.  "I  have  other  duties 
than  to  you,  you  know,  and  I  only  answer  for  my 
actions  during  the  actual  period  of  our  interview. 
There  are  many  things  I  should  like  to  say  to  you, 
my  brother,"  a  gentler  voice  went  on,  "but  this  is 
hardly  the  time  for  me  to  say  them.  But  there  is 
one  question  I  should  like  to  ask  you  for  the  peace 
of  both  our  souls,  and  for  the  maintenance  of  my 
own  belief  in  human  nature."  He  threw  up  an 
episcopal  hand  dramatically.      "If  you  earnestly 

249 


Stingaree 

and  honestly  wished  to  save  this  poor  lady's  life, 
and  there  were  no  other  way,  would  you  then  be 
man  enough  to  give  yourself  up — to  give  your  lib- 
erty for  her  life?" 

Stingaree  took  time  to  think.  His  eyes  were 
brightly  fixed  upon  the  Bishop's.  Yet  they  saw 
a  little  bedroom  just  as  plain,  an  English  lady 
standing  by  the  empty  bed,  and  at  its  foot  a  por- 
trait of  himself  armed  to  the  teeth. 

"For  hers?"  said  he.  "Yes,  like  a  shot!" 
"I'm  thankful  to  hear  it,"  replied  the  Bishop, 
with  most  fervent  relief.  "I  only  wish  you  could 
have  the  opportunity.  But  now  you  never  will. 
My  brother,  if  you  look  round,  you  will  see  why!" 
Stingaree  looked  round  without  a  word.  In 
the  Bishop's  eyes  at  the  last  instant  he  had  learned 
what  to  expect.  A  firing-party  of  four  stocking- 
soled  constables  were  drawn  across  the  opened 
French  windows,  their  levelled  rifles  poking 
through. 

The  bushranger  looked  over  his  shoulder  with 
a  bitter  smile.  "You've  done  me,  after  all!"  said 
he,  and  stretched  out  empty  hands. 

"It  was  done  before  I  saw  you,"  the  Bishop 
made  answer.    "I  had  already  sent  for  the  police." 
One  had  entered  excitedly  by  an  inner  door. 
"And  he  didn't  do  you  at  all!"  cried  the  voice 
250 


The  Villain-Worshipper 

of  high  hysteria.  "It  was  I  who  saw  you — It  was 
I  who  guessed  who  it  was !  Oh,  father,  why  have 
you  been  talking  so  long  to  such  a  dreadful  man? 
I  made  sure  he  would  shoot  you,  and  you'd  still  be 
shot  if  they  had  to  shoot  him!  Move — move — 
move!" 

Stingaree  loo!s:ed  at  the  strong-minded  girl, 
shrill  with  her  triumph,  quite  carried  away  by  her 
excitement,  all  undaunted  by  the  prospect  of  blood- 
shed before  her  eyes.  And  it  was  he  who  moved, 
with  but  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and  gave  him- 
self up  without  another  sign. 


251 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 


DARLINGHURST  JAIL  had  never  immured 
a  more  interesting  prisoner  than  the  back- 
block  bandit  who  was  tried  and  convicted  under 
the  strange  style  and  title  which  he  had  made  his 
own.  Not  even  in  prison  was  his  real  name  ever 
known,  and  the  wild  speculations  of  some  imag- 
inative officials  were  nothing  else  up  to  the  end. 
There  was  enough  color  in  their  wildness,  however, 
to  crown  the  convict  with  a  certain  halo  of  romance, 
which  his  behavior  in  jail  did  nothing  to  dispel. 
That,  of  course,  was  exemplar)',  since  Stingaree  had 
never  been  a  fool ;  but  it  was  something  more  and 
rarer.  Not  content  simply  to  follow  the  line  of 
least  resistance,  he  exhibited  from  the  first  a  spirit 
and  a  philosophy  unique  indeed  beneath  the  broad 
arrow.  And  so  far  from  decreasing  with  the  years 
of  his  captivity,  these  attractive  qualities  won  him 
friend  after  friend  among  the  officials,  and  privi- 
lege upon  privilege  at  their  hands,  while  amply 
justifying  the  romantic  interest  in  his  case. 

At  last  there  came  to  Sydney  a  person  more 
252 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

capable  of  an  acute  appreciation  of  the  heroic  vil- 
lain than  his  most  ardent  admirer  on  the  spot. 
Lucius  Brady  was  a  long-haired  Irishman  of  let- 
ters, bard  and  bookworm,  rebel  and  reviewer;  in 
his  ample  leisure  he  was  also  the  most  enthusiastic 
criminologist  in  London.  And  as  President  of  an 
exceedingly  esoteric  Society  for  the  Cultivation  of 
Criminals,  even  from  London  did  he  come  for  a 
prearranged  series  of  interviews  with  the  last  and 
the  most  distinguished  of  all  the  bushrangers. 

It  was  to  Lucius  Brady,  his  biographer  to  be, 
that  Stingaree  confided  the  data  of  all  the  misdeeds 
recounted  In  these  pages;  but  of  his  life  during  the 
quiet  intervals,  of  his  relations  with  confederates, 
and  his  more  honest  dealings  with  honest  folk  (of 
which  many  a  pretty  tale  was  rife),  he  was  not  to 
be  persuaded  to  speak  without  an  irritating  reserve. 

"Keep  to  my  points  of  contact  with  the  world, 
about  which  something  is  known  already,  and  you 
shall  have  the  whole  truth  of  each  matter,"  said 
the  convict.  "But  I  don't  intend  to  give  away  the 
altogether  unknown,  and  I  doubt  if  it  would  inter- 
est you  if  I  did.  The  most  interesting  thing  to  me 
has  been  the  different  types  with  whom  I  have  had 
what  it  pleases  you  to  term  professional  relations, 
and  the  very  different  ways  in  which  they  have 
taken  me.    You  read  character  by  flashlight  along 

253 


Stingaree 

the  barrel  of  your  revolver.  What  you  should  do 
Is  to  hunt  up  my  various  victims  and  get  at  their 
point  of  view ;  you  really  mustn't  press  me  to  hark 
back  to  mine.  As  it  is  you  bring  a  whiff  of  the 
outer  world  which  makes  me  bruise  my  wings 
against  the  bars." 

The  criminologist  gloated  over  such  speeches 
from  such  lips.  It  would  have  touched  another  to 
note  what  an  irresistible  fascination  the  bars  had 
for  the  wings,  despite  all  pain;  but  Lucius  Brady's 
interest  in  Stingaree  was  exclusively  intellectual. 
His  heart  never  ached  for  a  roving  spirit  in  con- 
finement; it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  suppress  a 
detail  of  his  own  days  In  Sydney,  down  to  the  at- 
tractions of  an  Italian  restaurant  he  had  discovered 
near  the  jail,  the  flavor  of  the  Chlanti  and  so  forth. 
On  the  contrary.  It  was  most  Interesting  to  note 
the  play  of  features  In  the  tortured  man,  who  after 
all  brought  his  torture  on  himself  by  asking  so 
many  questions.  Soon,  when  his  visitor  left  him, 
the  bondman  could  follow  the  free  In  all  but  the 
flesh,  through  every  corridor  of  the  prison  and 
every  street  outside,  to  the  hotel  where  you  read 
the  English  papers  on  the  veranda,  or  to  the  little 
restaurant  where  the  Chianti  was  corked  with  oil 
which  the  waiter  removed  with  a  wisp  of  tow. 
One  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  as  Lucius  Brady 
254 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

was  beaming  on  him  through  his  spectacles,  and 
indulging  in  an  incisive  criticism  on  the  champagne 
at  Government  House,  Stingaree  quietly  garroted 
him.  A  gag  was  in  all  readiness,  likewise  strips  of 
coarse  sheeting  torn  up  for  the  purpose  in  the  night. 
Black  in  the  face,  but  with  breath  still  in  his  body, 
the  criminologist  was  carefully  gagged  and  tied 
down  to  the  bedstead,  while  his  living  image  (at  a 
casual  glance)  strolled  with  bent  head,  black  som- 
brero, spectacles  and  frock-coat,  first  through  the 
cold  corridors  and  presently  along  the  streets. 

The  heat  of  the  pavement  striking  to  his  soles 
was  the  first  of  a  hundred  exquisite  sensations;  but 
Stingaree  did  not  permit  himself  to  savor  one  of 
them.  Indeed,  he  had  his  work  cut  out  to  check 
the  pace  his  heart  dictated ;  and  it  was  by  admirable 
exercise  of  the  will  that  he  wandered  along,  deep 
to  all  appearance  in  a  Camelot  Classic  which  he 
had  found  in  the  criminologist's  pocket;  in  reality 
blinded  by  the  glasses,  but  all  the  more  vigilant 
out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

A  suburb  was  the  scene  of  these  perambulations; 
had  he  but  dared  to  lift  his  face,  Stingaree  might 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bluest  of  blue  water; 
and  his  prison  eyes  hungered  for  the  sight,  but  he 
would  not  raise  his  eyes  so  long  as  footsteps 
sounded  on  the  same  pavement.     By  taking  judi- 

255 


Stingaree 

clous  turnings,  however,  he  drifted  into  a  quiet 
road,  with  gray  suburban  bungalows  on  one  side 
and  building  lots  on  the  other.  No  step  ap- 
proached. He  could  look  up  at  last.  And  the 
very  bungalow  that  he  was  passing  was  shut  up, 
yet  furnished;  the  people  had  merely  gone  away, 
servants  and  all;  he  saw  it  at  a  glance  from  the 
newspapers  plastering  the  windows  which  caught 
the  sun.  In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  garden,  and 
in  another  he  had  forced  a  side  gate  leading  by  an 
alley  to  backyard  and  kitchen  door;  but  for  many 
minutes  he  went  no  further  than  this  gate,  behind 
w^hich  he  cowered,  prepared  with  excuses  in  case 
he  had  already  been  observed. 

It  was  in  this  interval  that  Stingaree  recalled 
the  season  with  a  thrill ;  for  it  was  Christmas  week, 
and  without  a  doubt  the  house  would  be  empty  till 
the  New  Year.  Here  was  one  port  for  the  storm 
that  must  follow  his  escape.  And  a  very  pleasant 
port  he  found  it  on  entering,  after  due  precau- 
tionary delay. 

Clearly  the  abode  of  young  married  people,  the 
bungalow  was  fitted  and  furnished  with  a  taste 
which  appealed  almost  painfully  to  Stingaree;  the 
drawing-room  was  drape  i  in  sheets,  but  the  walls 
carried  a  few  good  engravings,  some  of  which  he 
remembered  with  a   stab.      It  was  the   dressing- 

256 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

room,  however,  that  he  wanted,  and  the  dressing- 
room  made  him  rub  his  hands.  The  dainty  estab- 
lishment had  no  more  kixurious  corner,  what  with 
the  fitted  bath,  circular  shaving-glass,  packed  trou- 
ser-press,  a  row  of  boots  on  trees,  and  a  fine  old 
wardrobe  full  of  hanging  coats.  Stingaree  began 
by  selecting  his  suit;  and  it  may  have  been  his 
vanity,  or  a  strange  longing  to  look  for  once  what 
he  once  had  been,  but  he  could  not  resist  the  young 
man's  excellent  evening  clothes. 

"This  fellow  comes  from  Home,"  said  he. 
"And  they  are  spending  their  Christmas  pretty  far 
back,  or  he  would  have  taken  these  with  him." 

He  had  wallowed  in  the  highly  enamelled  bath, 
and  was  looking  for  a  towel  when  he  saw  his  head 
in  the  shaving-glass ;  he  was  dry  enough  before  he 
could  think  of  anything  else.  There  was  a 
dilemma,  obvious  yet  unforeseen.  That  shaven 
head !  Purple  and  fine  linen  could  not  disguise  the 
convict's  crop;  a  wig  was  the  only  hope;  but  to 
wear  a  wig  one  must  first  try  it  on — and  let  the 
perruquier  call  the  police.  The  knot  was  Gordian. 
And  yet,  desperately  as  Stingaree  sought  unravel- 
ment,  he  was  at  the  same  time  subconsciously  as 
deep  in  a  study  of  a  face  so  unfamiliar  that  at  first 
he  had  scarcely  known  it  for  his  own.  It  was  far 
leaner  than  of  old;  it  was  no  longer  richly  tanned; 

257 


Stingaree 

and  the  mouth  called  louder  than  ever  for  a  mus- 
tache. The  hair,  what  there  was  of  it,  seemed 
iron-gray.  It  had  certainly  receded  at  the  temples. 
What  a  pity,  while  it  was  about  it 

Stingaree  clapped  his  hands;  his  hunt  for  the 
razor  was  feverish,  tremulous.  Such  a  young  man 
must  have  many  razors;  he  had,  he  had — here  they 
were.    Oh,  young  man  blessed  among  young  men ! 

It  was  quite  dark  when  a  gentleman  in  evening 
clothes,  light  overcoat,  and  opera  hat,  sallied  forth 
into  the  quiet  road.  Quiet  as  it  was,  however,  a 
whistle  blew  as  he  trod  the  pavement,  and  his  hour 
or  two  of  liberty  seemed  at  an  end.  His  long  term 
in  prison  had  mixed  Stingaree's  ideas  of  the  old 
country  and  the  new;  he  had  forgotten  that  it  is 
the  postmen  who  blow  the  whistles  in  Australia. 
Yet  this  postman  stopped  him  on  the  spot. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  if  it's  quite  con- 
venient may  I  ask  you  for  the  Christmas-box  you 
was  kind  enough  to  promise  me?" 

"I  think  you  are  mistaking  me  for  someone 
else,"  said  Stingaree. 

"Why,  so  I  am,  sir !  I  thought  you  came  out  of 
Mr.  Brinton's  house." 

"Sorry to disappointyou,"  said  the  convict.  "If  I 
only  had  change  you  should  have  some  of  it,  in  spite 
of  your  mistake;  but,  unfortunately,  I  have  none." 

258 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

He  had,  however,  a  handsome  pair  of  opera- 
glasses,  which  he  converted  into  change  (on  the 
gratuitous  plea  that  he  had  forgotten  his  purse) 
at  the  first  pawnbroker's  on  the  confines  of  the  city. 
The  pawnbroker  talked  Greek  to  him  at  once. 

"It's  a  pity  you  won't  be  able  to  see  'er,  sir,  as 
well  as  'ear  'er,"  said  he. 

"Perhaps  they  have  them  on  hire  in  the  theatre," 
replied  Stingaree  at'  a  venture.  The  pawnbroker's 
face  instantly  advised  him  that  his  observation  was 
wide  of  the  obscure  mark. 

"The  theatre !  You  v/on't  'ear  'er  at  any  thea- 
tre in  Sydney,  nor  yet  in  the  Southern  'Emisphere. 
Town  'Alls  is  the  only  lay  for  'Ilda  Bouverie 
out  'ere !" 

At  first  the  name  conveyed  nothing  to  Stingaree. 
Yet  it  was  not  wholly  unfamiliar. 

"Of  course,"  said  he.  "The  Town  Hall  I 
meant." 

The  pawnbroker  leered  as  he  put  down  a  sover- 
eign and  a  shilling. 

"What  a  season  she's  'aving,  sir!" 

"Ah!     What  a  season!" 

And  Stingaree  wagged  his  opera-hatted  head. 

"'Undreds  of  pounds'  worth  of  flowers  flung  on 
to  every  platform,  and  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  place !" 

"I  know,"  said  the  feeling  Stingaree. 
259 


Stingaree 


"It*s  wonderful  to  think  of  this  'ere  Colony  pro- 
doocin'  the  world's  best  primer  donner!" 

"It  is,  indeed." 

"When  you  think  of  'er  start." 

"That's  true." 

The  pawnbroker  leant  across  his  counter  and 
leered  more  than  ever  in  his  customer's  face. 

"They  say  she  ain't  no  better  than  she  ought 
to  be!" 

"Really?" 

"It's  right,  too;  but  what  can  you  expect  of  a 
primer  donner  whose  fortune  was  made  by  a 
blood-thirsty  bushranger  like  that  there  Sting- 
aree?" 

"You  little  scurrilous  wretch!"  cried  the  bush- 
ranger, and  flung  out  of  the  shop  that  second. 

It  was  a  miracle.  He  remembered  everything 
now.  Then  he  had  done  the  world  a  service  as 
well  as  the  woman !  He  gave  thanks  for  the  guinea 
in  his  pocket,  and  asked  his  way  to  the  Town  Hall. 
And  as  he  marched  down  the  middle  of  the  lighted 
streets  the  first  flock  of  newsboys  came  flying  in 
his  face. 

"Escape  of  Stingaree!  Escape  of  Stingaree! 
Cowardly  Outrage  on  Famous  Author!  Escape 
of  Stingaree! !" 

The  damp  pink  papers  were  in  the  hands  of  the 
260 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

overflow  crowd  outside  the  hall;  his  own  name  was 
already  in  every  mouth,  continually  coupled  with 
that  of  the  world-renowned  Hilda  Bouverie.  It 
did  not  deter  the  convict  from  elbowing  his  way 
through  the  mass  that  gloated  over  his  deed  exactly 
as  they  would  have  gloated  over  his  destruction  on 
the  gallows.  "I  have  my  ticket;  I  have  been  de- 
tained," he  told  the  police;  and  at  the  last  line  of 
defence  he  whispered,  "A  guinea  for  standing- 
room!"    And  the  guinea  got  it. 

It  was  the  interval  between  parts  one  and  two. 
He  thought  of  that  other  interval,  when  he  had 
made  such  a  different  entry  at  the  same  juncture; 
the  other  concert-room  would  have  gone  some  fifty 
times  into  this.  All  at  once  fell  a  hush,  and  then 
a  rising  thunder  of  applause,  and  some  one  re- 
quested Stingaree  to  remove  his  hat;  he  did  so,  and 
a  cold  creeping  of  the  shaven  flesh  reminded  him 
of  his  general  position  and  of  this  particular  peril. 
But  no  one  took  any  notice  of  him  or  of  his  head. 
And  it  was  not  Hilda  Bouverie  this  time;  it  was  a 
pianiste  in  violent  magenta  and  elaborate  lace, 
whose  performance  also  was  loud  and  embroidered. 
Followed  a  beautiful  young  barytone  whom  Miss 
Bouverie  had  brought  from  London  in  her  pocket 
for  the  tour.  He  sang  three  little  songs  very 
charmingly  indeed;  but  there  was  no  encore.     The 

261 


Stingaree 

gods  were   burning    for   their   own;   perfunctory- 
plaudits  died  to  a  dramatic  pause. 

And  then,  and  then,  amid  deafening  salvos  a 
dazzling  vision  appeared  upon  the  platform,  came 
forward  with  the  carriage  of  a  conscious  queen, 
stood  bowing  and  beaming  in  the  gloss  and  glitter 
of  fabric  and  of  gem  that  were  yet  less  radiant  than 
herself.  Stingaree  stood  inanimate  between  stamp- 
ing feet  and  clapping  hands.  No;  he  would  never 
have  connected  this  magnificent  woman  with  the 
simple  bush  girl  in  the  unpretentious  frocks  that  he 
recalled  as  clearly  as  her  former  self.  He  had 
looked  for  less  finery,  less  physical  development, 
less,  indeed,  of  the  grand  operatic  tout-ensemble. 
But  acting  ended  with  her  smile,  and  much  of  the 
old  innocent  simplicity  came  back  as  the  lips  parted 
in  song.  And  her  song  had  not  been  spoilt  by 
riches  and  adulation;  her  song  had  not  sacrificed 
sweetness  to  artifice ;  there  was  even  more  than  the 
old  magic  in  her  song. 

"Is  this  a  dream? 

Then  waking  would  be  pain! 
Oh !  do  not  wake  me ; 
Let  me  dream  again." 

It  was  no  new  number  even  then;  even  Stingaree 
had  often  heard  it,  and  heard  great  singers  go  the 

262 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

least  degree  flat  upon  the  first  "dream."  He  lis- 
tened critically.  Hilda  Bouverie  was  not  one  of 
the  delinquents.  Her  Intonation  was  as  perfect 
as  that  of  the  great  violinists,  her  high  notes  had 
the  rarefied  quality  of  the  E  string  finely  touched. 
It  was  a  flawless,  If  a  purely  popular,  performance; 
and  the  musical  heart  of  one  listener  in  that 
crowded  room  was  too  full  for  mere  applause. 
But  he  waited  with  patient  curiosity  for  the  encore, 
waited  while  courtesy  after  courtesy  was  given  In 
vain.  She  had  to  yield ;  she  yielded  with  a  winning 
grace.  And  the  first  bars  of  the  new  song  set  one 
full  heart  beating,  so  that  the  earher  words  were 
lost  upon  his  brain. 

"She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads; 
And  down  this  world-worn  track 
She  leads  me  on ;  but  while  she  leads 
She  never  gazes  back. 

"And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams, 
To  witch  me  more  and  more ; 
That  wooing  voice !    Ah  me,  it  seems 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 

"Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase; 
I  follow — follow  still ;  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  Face." 

263 


Stingaree 


So  the  song  ended ;  and  in  the  ultimate  quiet  the 
need  of  speech  came  over  Stingaree. 

"  'The  Unreahzed  Ideal,'  "  he  informed  a 
neighbor. 

"Rather!"  rejoined  the  man,  treating  the  stale 
news  as  a  mere  remark.  "We  never  let  her  off 
without  that." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Stingaree. 

"It's  the  song  the  bushranger  forced  her  to  sing 
at  the  back-block  concert,  and  it  made  her  fortune  ! 
Good  old  Stingaree !  By  the  way,  I  heard  some- 
body behind  me  say  he  had  escaped.  That  can't 
be  true?" 

"The  newsboys  were  yelling  it  as  I  came  along 
late." 

"Well,"  said  Stingaree's  neighbor,  "if  he 
has  escaped,  and  I  for  one  don't  hope  he 
hasn't,  this  is  where  he  ought  to  be.  Just  the 
sort  of  thing  he'd  do,  too.  Good  old  sportsman, 
Stingaree !" 

It  was  an  embarrassing  compliment,  eye  to  eye 
and  foot  to  foot,  wedged  in  a  crowd.  The  bush- 
ranger did  not  fish  for  any  more;  neither  did  he 
wait  to  hear  Hilda  Bouverie  sing  again,  though 
this  cost  him  much.  But  he  had  one  more  word 
with  his  neighbor  before  he  went. 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  where  she's  staying, 
264 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

I  suppose?  I've  met  her  once  or  twice,  and  I 
might  call." 

The  other  smiled  as  on  some  suicidal  moth. 

"There's  only  one  place  good  enough  for  a  star 
like  her  in  Sydney." 

"And  that  is?" 

"Government  House." 


II 


His  Excellency  of  the  moment  was  a  young 
nobleman  of  sporting  proclivities  and  your  true 
sportsman's  breadth  of  mind.  He  was  immensely 
popular  with  all  sects  and  sections  but  the  aggres- 
sively puritanical  and  the  narrowly  austere.  He 
graced  the  theatre  with  his  constant  presence,  the 
Turf  with  his  own  horses.  His  entertainment  was 
lavish,  and  in  quality  far  above  the  gubernatorial 
average.  Late  life  and  soul  of  exalted  circle,  he 
was  hide-bound  by  few  of  the  conventional  tram- 
mels that  distinguished  the  older  type  of  peer  to 
which  the  Colonies  had  been  accustomed.  It  was 
the  obvious  course  for  such  a  Governor  and  his 
kindred  lady  to  insist  upon  making  the  great  Miss 
Bouverie  their  guest  for  the  period  of  her  pro- 
fessional sojourn  in  the  capital;  and  a  semi-Bohe- 

265 


Stingaree 

mian  supper  at  the  Government  House  was  but  a 
characteristic  finale  to  her  first  great  concert. 

The  prima  donna  sat  on  the  Governor's  right, 
and  at  the  proper  point  his  Excellency  sang  her 
praises  in  a  charmingly  informal  speech,  which 
delighted  and  amused  the  press  men,  actors  and 
actresses  whom  he  had  collected  for  the  occasion. 
Only  the  guest  of  honor  looked  a  little  weary  and 
condescending;  she  had  a  sufficient  experience  of 
such  entertainments  in  London,  where  the  actors 
were  all  London  actors,  the  authors  and  journal- 
ists men  whose  names  one  knew.  Mere  peers  were 
no  great  treat  either;  in  a  word,  Hilda  Bouverie 
was  not  a  little  spoilt.  She  had  lost  the  girl's  glad 
outlook  on  the  world,  which  some  women  keep 
until  old  age.  There  were  stories  about  her  which 
would  have  accounted  for  a  deeper  deterioration. 
Yet  she  was  the  Governor's  guest,  and  her  behavior 
not  unworthy  of  the  honor.  On  him  at  least  she 
smiled,  and  her  real  smile,  less  expansive  than  the 
platform  counterfeit,  had  still  its  genuine  sweet- 
ness, its  winning  flashes;  and,  at  its  worst,  it  was 
more  sad  than  bitter. 

To-night  the  woman  was  an  exhausted  artist — 
unnerved,  unstrung,  unfitted  for  the  world,  yet  only 
showing  it  in  a  languid  appreciation  which  her  host 
and  hostess  were  the  first  to  understand.     Indeed, 

266 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

it  was  the  great  lady  who  carried  her  off,  howing 
with  her  platform  bow,  and  smiling  that  smile, 
before  the  banquet  was  at  an  end. 

A  charming  suite  of  rooms  had  been  placed  at 
the  disposal  of  the  prima  donna;  the  boudoir  was 
like  a  hot-house  with  the  floral  offerings  of  the 
evening,  already  tastefully  arranged  by  madame's 
own  Swiss  maid.  But  the  weary  lady  walked 
straight  through  to  her  bedroom,  and  sank  with  a 
sigh  into  the  arm-chair  before  the  glass. 

"Who  brought  this?"  she  asked,  peevishly  pick- 
ing a  twisted  note  from  amid  the  golden  furniture 
of  her  toilet-table. 

"I  never  saw  it  until  this  minute,  madame!"  the 
Swiss  maid  answered,  in  dismay.  "It  was  not 
there  ten  minutes  ago,  I  am  sure,  madame!" 

"Where  have  you  been  since?" 

"Down  to  the  servants'  hall,  for  one  minute, 
madame." 

Miss  Bouverie  read  the  note,  and  was  an  ani- 
mated being  in  three  seconds.  She  looked  in  the 
glass,  the  flush  became  her,  and  even  as  she  looked 
all  horror  died  in  her  dark-blue  eyes.  Instead 
there  came  a  glitter  that  warned  the  maid. 

"I  am  tired  of  you.  Lea,"  cried  madame.  "You 
let  people  bring  notes  into  my  room,  and  you  say 
you  were  only  out  of  it  a  minute.    Be  good  enough 

267 


Stingaree 


to  leave  me  for  the  night.    I  can  look  after  myself, 
for  once!" 

The  maid  protested,  wept,  but  was  expelled,  and 
a  key  turned  between  them;  then  Hilda  Bouverie 
read  her  note  again : — 

"Escaped  this  afternoon.  Came  to  your  concert.  Hid- 
ing in  boudoir.  Give  me  five  minutes,  or  raise  alarm, 
which  you  please. — Stingaree." 

So  ran  his  words  in  pencil  on  her  own  paper, 
and  they  were  true;  she  had  heard  at  supper  of  the 
escape.  Once  more  she  looked  in  the  glass.  And 
to  her  own  eyes  in  these  minutes  she  looked  years 
younger — there  was  a  new  sensation  left  in 
life! 

A  touch  to  her  hair,  a  glance  in  the  pier-glass, 
and  all  for  a  notorious  convict  broken  prison !  So 
into  the  boudoir  with  her  grandest  air;  but  again 
she  locked  the  door  behind  her,  and,  sweeping 
round,  beheld  a  bald  man  bowing  to  her  in  immacu- 
late evening  clothes. 

"Are  you  the  writer  of  a  note  found  on  my 
dressing-table?"  she  demanded,  every  syllable  off 
the  ice. 

"I  am." 

"Then  who  are  you,  besides  being  an  impudent 
forger?" 

268 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

"You  name  the  one  crime  I  never  committed," 
said  he.     "I  am  Stingaree," 

And  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes;  but  not 
yet  were  hers  to  be  believed, 

"He  only  escaped  this  afternoon!" 

"I  am  he." 

"With  a  bald  head?" 

"Thanks  to  a  razor." 

"And  in  those  clothes?" 

"I  found  them  where  I  found  the  razor.  Look; 
they  don't  fit  me  as  well  as  they  might." 

And  he  drew  nearer,  flinging  out  an  abbreviated 
sleeve;  but  she  looked  all  the  harder  in  his  face. 

"Yes.  I  begin  to  remember  your  face ;  but  it  has 
changed." 

"It  has  gazed  on  prison  walls  for  many  years." 

"I  heard  ...  I  was  grieved  .  .  . 
but  it  was  bound  to  come." 

"It  may  come  again.  I  care  very  little,  after 
this !" 

And  his  dark  eyes  shone,  his  deep  voice  vibrated ; 
then  he  glanced  over  a  shrugged  shoulder  toward 
the  outer  door,  and  Hilda  darted  as  if  to  turn  that 
key  too,  but  there  was  none  to  turn. 

"It  ought  to  happen  at  once,"  she  said,  "and 
through  me." 

"But  it  will  not." 

269 


Stingaree 

His  assurance  annoyed  her;  she  preferred  his 
homage. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  cried.  "You  did 
me  a  service  years  ago.     I  am  not  to  forget  it!" 

"It  is  not  I  who  have  kept  it  before  your  mind." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  that's  why  you  come  to  me 
to-night." 

Stingaree  looked  upon  the  spirited,  spoilt  beauty 
in  her  satin  and  diamonds  and  pearls;  villain  as  he 
was,  he  held  himself  at  her  mercy,  but  he  was  not 
going  to  kneel  to  her  for  that.  He  saw  a  woman 
who  had  heard  the  truth  from  very  few  men,  a 
nature  grown  in  mastery  as  his  own  had  inevitably 
shrunk:  it  was  worth  being  at  large  to  pit  the  old 
Adam  still  remaining  to  him  against  the  old  Eve  in 
this  petted  darling  of  the  world.  But  false  pro- 
testations were  no  counters  in  his  game. 

"Miss  Bouverie,"  said  Stingaree,  "you  may  well 
suppose  that  I  have  borne  you  in  mind  all  these 
years.  As  a  matter  of  honest  fact,  when  I  first 
heard  your  name  this  evening,  I  was  slow  to  con- 
nect it  with  any  human  being.  You  look  angry. 
I  intend  no  insult.  If  you  have  not  forgotten  the 
life  I  was  leading  before,  you  would  very  readily 
understand  that  I  have  never  heard  your  name 
from  those  days  to  this.  That  is  my  misfortune, 
if  also  my  own  fault.     It  should  suffice  that,  when 

270 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

I  did  remember,  I  came  at  my  peril  to  hear  you 
sing,  and  that  before  I  dreamt  of  coming  an  inch 
further.  But  I  heard  them  say,  both  in  the  hall 
and  outside,  that  you  owed  your  start  to  me;  now 
one  thinks  of  it,  it  must  have  been  a  rather  striking 
advertisement;  and  I  reflected  that  not  another  soul 
in  Sydney  can  possibly  owe  me  anything  at  all.  So 
I  came  straight  to  you,  without  thinking  twice 
about  it.  Criminal  as  I  have  been,  and  am,  my 
one  thought  was  and  is  that  I  deserve  some  little 
consideration  at  your  hands." 

"You  mean  money?" 

"I  have  not  a  penny.  It  would  make  all  the 
difference  to  me.  And  I  give  you  my  word,  if  that 
Is  any  satisfaction  to  you,  I  would  be  an  honest  man 
from  this  time  forth  !" 

"You  actually  ask  me  to  assist  a  criminal  and 
escaped  convict — me,  Hilda  Bouverie,  at  my  own 
absolute  risk!" 

"I  took  a  risk  for  you  nine  years  ago.  Miss 
Bouverie;  it  was  all  I  did  take,"  said  Stingaree, 
"at  the  concert  that  made  your  name." 

"And  you  rub  it  in,"  she  told  him.  "You  rub 
it  in!" 

"I  am  running  for  my  life!"  he  exclaimed,  in 
answer.  "It  wouldn't  have  been  necessary — that 
would  have  been  enough  for  the  Miss  Bouverie  I 

271 


Stingaree 

knew  then.  But  you  are  different;  you  are  another 
being,  you  are  a  woman  of  the  world;  your  heart, 
your  heart  is  dead  and  gone  !" 

He  cut  her  to  it,  none  the  less ;  he  could  not  have 
,  inflicted  a  deeper  wound.  The  blood  leapt  to  her 
face  and  neck;  she  cried  out  at  the  insult,  the  indig- 
nity, the  outrage  of  it  all ;  and  crying  she  darted  to 
the  door. 

It  was  locked. 

She  turned  on  Stingaree. 

"You  dared  to  lock  the  door — you  dared !  Give 
me  the  key  this  instant." 

"I  refuse." 

"Very  well!  You  have  heard  my  voice;  you 
shall  hear  it  again!" 

Her  pale  lips  made  the  perfect  round,  her  grand 
teeth  gleamed  in  the  electric  light. 

He  arrested  her,  not  with  violence,  but  a  shrug. 

"I  shall  jump  out  of  the  window  and  break  my 
neck.    They  don't  take  me  twice — alive." 

She  glared  at  him  in  anger  and  contempt.  He 
meant  it.  Then  let  him  do  it.  Her  eyes  told  him 
all  that;  but  as  they  flashed,  stabbing  him,  their 
expression  altered,  and  In  a  trice  her  ear  was  to 
the  keyhole. 

"Something  has  happened,"  she  whispered,  turn- 
ing a  scared  face  up  to  him.     "I  hear  your  name. 

272 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

They  have  traced  you  here.     They  are  coming! 
Oh  !  what  are  we  to  do?" 

He  strode  over  to  the  door. 

"If  you  fear  a  scandal  I  can  give  myself  up  this 
moment  and  explain  all." 

He  spoke  eagerly.  The  thought  was  sudden. 
She  rose  up,  looking  in  his  eyes. 

"No,  you  shall  not,"  she  said.  Her  hand  flew 
out  behind  her,  and  in  two  seconds  the  brilliant 
room  had  click-clicked  into  a  velv^et  darkness. 

"Stand  like  a  mouse,"  she  whispered,  and  he 
heard  her  reach  the  inner  door,  where  she  stood 
like  another. 

Steps  and  voices  came  along  the  landing  at  a 
quick  crescendo. 

"Miss  Bouverie!  Miss  Bouveriel  Miss  Bou- 
verie !" 

It  was  his  Excellency's  own  gay  voice.  And  it 
continued  until  with  much  noise  Miss  Bouverie 
flung  her  bedroom  door  wide  open,  put  on  the  light 
within,  ran  across  the  boudoir,  put  on  the  boudoir 
light,  and  stooped  to  parley  through  the  keyhole. 

"The  bushranger  Stingaree  has  been  traced  to 
Government  House." 

"Good  heavens!" 

"One  of  your  windows  was  seen  open." 

"He  had  not  come  in  through  it." 
273 


Stingaree 

"Then  you  were  heard  raising  your  voice." 

"That  was  to  my  maid.  This  is  all  through  her. 
I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  but  she  leaves  me  in 
the  morning.  Yes,  yes,  there  was  a  man,  but  it 
was  not  Stingaree.  I  saw  him  myself  through  com- 
ing up  early,  but  I  let  him  go  as  he  had  come,  to 
save  a  fuss." 

"Through  the  window?" 

"I  am  so  ashamed!" 

"Not  a  bit.  Miss  Bouverie,  I  am  ashamed  of 
bothering  you.     Confound  the  police!" 

When  the  voices  and  steps  had  died  away,  Hilda 
Bouverie  turned  to  Stingaree,  her  whole  face  shin- 
ing, her  deep  blue  eyes  alight. 

"There !"  said  she.  "Could  you  have  done  that 
better  yourself?" 

"Not  half  so  well." 

"And  you  thought  I  could  forget!" 

"I  thought  nothing.  I  only  came  to  you  in  my 
scrape." 

After  years  of  imprisonment  he  could  speak  of 
this  life-and-death  hazard  as  a  scrape  !  She  looked 
at  him  with  admiring  eyes;  her  personal  triumph 
had  put  an  end  to  her  indignation. 

"My  poor  Lea!  I  wonder  how  much  she  has 
heard?  I  shall  have  to  tell  her  nearly  all;  she  can 
wait  for  me  at  Melbourne  or  Adelaide,  and  I  can 

274 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

pick  her  up  on  my  voyage  home.  It  will  be  no 
joke  without  her  until  then.  I  give  her  up  for 
your  sake!" 

Stingaree  hung  his  head.  He  was  a  changed 
man. 

"And  I,"  he  said  grimly — not  pathetically — 
"and  I  am  a  convict  who  escaped  by  violence  this 
afternoon." 

Hilda  smiled. 

"I  met  Mr.  Brady  the  other  day,"  she  said,  "and 
I  heard  of  him  to-night.    He  is  not  going  to  die !" 

He  stared  at  her  unscrupulous  radiance. 

"Do  you  wonder  at  me?"  she  said.  "Did  you 
never  hear  that  musical  people  had  no  morals?" 

And  her  smile  bewitched  him  more  and  more. 

"It  explains  \is  both !"  declared  Miss  Bouverie. 
"But  do  you  know  what  I  have  kept  all  these 
years?"  she  went  on.  "Do  you  know  what  has 
been  my  mascot,  what  I  have  had  about  me  when- 
ever I  have  sung  in  jublic,  since  and  including  that 
time  at  Yallarook?    Can't  you  guess?" 

He  could  not.  She  turned  her  back,  he  heard 
some  gussets  give,  and  the  next  moment  she  was 
holding  a  strange  trophy  in  both  hands. 

It  was  a  tiny  silken  bandolier,  containing  six 
revolver  cartridges,  with  bullet  and  cap  Intact. 

"Can't  you  guess  now?"  she  gloried. 
275 


Stingaree 

"No.  I  never  missed  them;  they  are  not  like 
any  I  ever  had." 

"Don't  you  remember  the  man  who  chased  you 
out  and  misfired  at  you  six  times?  He  was  the 
overseer  on  the  station;  his  name  may  come  back 
to  me,  but  his  face  I  shall  never  forget.  He  had 
a  revolver  in  his  pocket,  but  he  dared  not  lower  a 
hand.  I  took  it  out  of  his  pocket  and  was  to  hand 
it  up  to  him  when  I  got  the  chance.  Until  then  I 
was  to  keep  it  under  my  shawl.  That  was  when 
I  managed  to  unload  every  chamber.  These  are 
the  cartridges  I  took  out,  and  they  have  been  my 
mascot  ever  since." 

She  looked  years  younger  than  she  had  seemed 
even  singing  in  the  Town  Hall ;  but  the  lines  deep- 
ened on  the  bushranger's  face,  and  he  stepped  back 
from  her  a  pace. 

"So  you  saved  my  life,"  he  said.  "You  had 
saved  my  life  all  the  time.  And  yet  I  cam.e  to  ask 
you  to  do  as  much  for  me  as  I  had  done  for  you !" 

He  turned  away;  his  hands  were  clenched  be- 
hind his  back. 

"I  will  do  more,"  she  cried,  "if  more  could  be' 
done  by  one  person  for  another.  Here  are  jewels." 
She  stripped  her  neck  of  its  rope  of  pearls.  "And 
here  are  notes."  She  dived  into  a  bureau  and 
thrust  a  handful  upon  him.     "With  these  alone 

276 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

you  should  be  able  to  get  to  England  or  America ; 
and  If  you  want  more  when  you  get  there,  write  to 
Hilda  Bouverle!  As  long  as  she  has  any,  there 
will  be  some  for  you  !" 

Tears  filled  her  eyes.  The  simplicity  of  her  girl- 
hood had  come  back  to  the  seasoned  woman  of  the 
world,  at  once  spoiled  and  satiated  with  success. 
This  was  the  other  side  of  the  artistic  temperament 
which  had  enslaved  her  soul.  She  would  swing 
from  one  extreme  of  wounded  and  vindictive  van- 
ity to  this  length  of  lawless  nobility;  now  she  could 
think  of  none  but  self,  and  now  not  of  herself  at 
all.     Stingaree  glanced  toward  the  window. 

"I  can't  go  yet,  I'm  afraid." 

*'You  sha'n't !    Why  should  you  ?" 

"But  I  still  fear  they  may  not  be  satisfied  down- 
stairs. I  am  ashamed  to  ask  it — but  will  you  do 
one  little  thing  m.ore  for  me?" 

"Name  It!" 

"It  is  only  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure.  Go 
^  downstairs  and  let  them  see  you;  tell  them  more 
details,  if  you  like.  Go  down  as  you  are,  and  say 
that  without  your  maid  you  could  not  find  anything 
else  to  put  on.  I  promise  not  to  vanish  with  every- 
thing In  your  absence." 

"You  do  promise?" 

"On  my— liberty!" 

2/7 


Stingaree 

She  looked  in  his  face  with  a  very  wistful  sweet- 
ness. 

"If  they  were  to  find  me  out,"  she  said,  "I 
wonder  how  many  years  they  would  give  me? 
I  neither  know  nor  care;  it  would  be  worth  a 
few.  I  thought  I  had  lived  since  I  saw  you 
last  .  .  .  but  this  is  the  best  fun  I  have 
ever  had     .     .     .     since  Yallarook!" 

She  stood  for  a  moment  before  opening  the  door 
that  he  unlocked  for  her,  stood  before  him  in  all 
her  flushed  and  brilliant  radiance,  and  blew  a  kiss 
to  him  before  she  went. 

The  Governor  was  easily  found.  He  was 
grieved  at  her  troubling  to  descend  at  such  an  hour, 
and  did  not  detain  her  five  minutes  in  all.  He 
thought  she  was  in  a  fever,  but  that  the  fever  be- 
came her  beyond  belief.  Reassured  on  every  point, 
Miss  Bouverie  was  back  in  her  room  but  a  very 
few  minutes  after  she  had  left  it. 

It  was  empty.  She  searched  all  over,  first  be- 
hind the  curtains,  then  between  the  pedestals  of  the 
bureau,  but  Stingaree  was  nowhere  in  the  room, , 
and  the  bedroom  door  was  still  locked.  It  was  a 
second  look  behind  the  curtains  that  revealed  an 
open  window  and  the  scratch  of  a  boot  upon  the 
white  enamel.  It  was  no  breakneck  drop  into  the 
shrubs. 

278 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 

So  he  had  gone  without  a  word,  but  also  without 
breaking  his  word;  for,  with  wet  eyes  and  a  white 
face,  between  anger  and  admiration,  Hilda  Bou- 
verie  had  already  discovered  her  bundle  of  notes 
and  her  rope  of  pearls. 

There  are  no  more  tales  of  Stingaree;  tongue 
never  ansv\^ered  to  the  name  again,  nor  was  face 
ev^r  recognized  as  his.  He  may  have  died  that 
night;  it  is  not  very  likely,  since  the  young  married 
man  in  the  well-appointed  bungalow,  which  had 
been  broken  into  earlier  in  the  day,  missed  a  suit 
of  clothes  indeed,  but  not  his  evening  clothes,  which 
were  found  hung  up  neatly  where  he  had  left  them ; 
and  it  is  regrettable  to  add  that  his  opera-glasses 
were  not  the  only  article  of  a  marketable  character 
which  could  never  be  found  on  his  return.  There 
is  none  the  less  reason  to  believe  that  this  was  the 
last  professional  incident  in  one  of  the  most  incred- 
ible criminal  careers  of  which  there  is  any  record  in 
Australia.  Whether  he  be  dead  or  alive,  back  in 
the  old  country  or  still  in  the  new,  or,  what  is  less 
likely,  in  prison  under  some  other  name,  the  grati- 
fying fact  remains  that  neither  In  Australia  nor 
elsewhere  has  there  been  a  second  series  of  crimes 
bearing  the  stam.p  of  Stingaree. 


279 


^^^^'^et^/oTA^,.^-^ 


i^25.'522 


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